Neither Here Nor There, But Definitely Everywhere

My Peculiar Ambivert Existence

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Let’s set the record straight: I’m not an introvert and I’m not an extrovert either. I’m an ambivert, baby. A wild blend of paradox and poetry. A walking yin-yang with a side of contradictions and a dirty chai in hand.

Some days I’m the loudest person in the coffeehouse, striking up conversations with strangers, exchanging book recommendations, life philosophies, and maybe even where to get the best tacos in town. Other days? I vanish into my lair for 72 hours like a hermit sage, surrounded by the Tao Te Ching, scribbled journal entries, the sound of classical music in the background, and my own echoing thoughts.

I call this my Ambivert Lifestyle: equal parts street philosopher and reclusive monk.

The world seems obsessed with self-labeling these days. Are you a bubbly ENFP or a brooding INTJ? Sorry, but I’m none of those alphabet soups. I’m a shape-shifter.

And honestly, I think the modern obsession with being an introvert has become less about self-awareness and more about a glorified escape hatch. “Sorry, can’t come out. I’m an introvert.” That’s not depth. That’s a boundary masquerading as a personality.

The Tao Te Ching whispers:

“When people see some things as beautiful, other things become ugly. Being and non-being create each other.”

Lao Tzu wasn’t one for labels. He knew that putting things in boxes makes them rigid, stale, dead on arrival. Same goes for humans. Call yourself an introvert long enough and you might just stop showing up for your own life.

Now, let’s talk sages.

Lao Tzu? He walked out of a corrupt imperial court on the back of a water buffalo and dipped into the mountains like a boss. Definitely had some introvert credentials. But don’t forget—he wrote a epic book that has been quoted by emperors and activists for 2,500 years. That’s some extroverted energy if you ask me. Lao Tzu was a cosmic ambivert: private in his living, prolific in his giving.

Confucius, on the other hand, was a man of ceremony, social order, and daily conversations with disciples. He liked people. Probably held a tight calendar. Extrovert? Sure. But have you read The Analects? That man was deep in his head. Probably journaled like a teen poet. Another ambivert.

But here’s the real Taoist kicker: I Ching Hexagram 29, “The Abysmal.” It speaks of danger and depth, and how the way through is to stay centered. “Water flows on and on and reaches its goal,” it says. You can dive deep, disappear, submerge for days—but still, you must resurface and flow.

That’s my life. I flow between extremes. I disappear, then I reappear—stronger, wiser, caffeinated. I’m the guy who’ll walk into a bookshop, chat up the cashier about Zhuangzi, then go home and not speak to another human for a weekend. That’s not moodiness. That’s balance. That’s Tao.

In a world of performative personality typing and social media bio identities, I’ve opted out. I’m not this or that. I’m not “quiet” or “life of the party.” I’m whoever the Tao needs me to be in that moment. Spontaneous order. Stillness and thunder. A handshake and a closed door.

So next time someone asks me, “Are you an introvert or extrovert?” I’ll smile and say:

“I’m water, my friend.”

Sometimes I rage down the mountain. Sometimes I sit still in the valley.

But I always flow.