There’s a peculiar kind of stillness that happens in the moments between question and answer—like the breath the ocean takes before drawing back into itself. That’s the space I occupy when someone asks me, “How would you describe yourself?” I don’t answer quickly. Not out of hesitation, but because I believe identity is not something you pull out of a drawer like a ready-made script. It’s something you live into. And sometimes, the words take time to surface.

I’ve come to realize that I’m not easily summarized. I am not a bullet point list. I am not a personality test result, though I know my letters: INTJ. I am not just a Hogwarts house, though yes—I am a Slytherin, and proudly so. But I am more than labels. I am the quiet between decisions. The pause before action. The inner life that burns brighter than the one I show on the surface.

If I were to really describe myself, it wouldn’t start with what I do, or even what I’ve done. It would start with how I see the world. I notice things most people skip past—the way someone’s voice softens when they feel safe, the shift in the wind right before it rains, the flicker in someone’s eyes when they’re pretending they’re okay. I gather those details. I carry them. I don’t always say it, but I see it. That’s how I love—quietly, precisely, without performance. I don’t need to be in the center of the room. I’d rather be the one who remembers what color your sky was on the day you stopped pretending.

I live in my head a lot. It’s not always a peaceful place, but it is where I find truth. My thoughts are layered like cities built on ancient ruins—logic resting on feeling, wrapped in memory. As an INTJ, I crave understanding. I plan without needing to control. I ask why and what for more than I ask how. I think long-term. I value depth. I build slowly but with conviction.

As a Slytherin, I am loyal—but not to everyone. I choose my people with great care, and when I do, I protect them like a fortress. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve. I wear it under lock and key, and only those who’ve proven themselves can find the spare. That doesn’t mean I’m cold. And that brings me to something I wish more people understood.

I am both. I am paradoxical in the way people are—quiet and intense, soft-spoken yet unyielding, introverted yet emotionally expansive. I can love deeply without needing to say it a hundred times. I can listen with full attention and still leave parts of myself unspoken. I can disappear to protect my peace and return with more to give. I can be calm on the surface while thinking a thousand things beneath it. I’m not distant—I’m discerning. And I’ve learned that discernment, in a world that asks us to be everything to everyone, is a form of quiet courage.

I am both an introvert and, when the energy is right, an extrovert. I move between solitude and connection like tides. I crave long, soul-deep conversations—the kind that stretch across hours and don’t need to be loud to be alive. But I also crave silence. Not the awkward kind, but the sacred kind—the kind that exists between people who don’t need to fill the space to feel safe in it. I can hold a room when I need to, but I rarely seek it. I don’t chase the spotlight, but I don’t fear it either. I’m comfortable in the background, quietly anchoring, subtly guiding, protecting what matters most to me.

I love clarity. I live for structure, rhythm, and reason. I make lists, not because I’m rigid, but because I value mental space. I plan not to control, but to prepare. I find comfort in systems, in patterns that reveal the hidden logic of the world. But I also love mystery. I am drawn to the unknown, the poetic, the abstract. I find beauty in unanswered questions and elegance in the things that don’t need to be solved to be meaningful. I am just as moved by a well-written sentence as I am by a well-executed idea. I can find peace in solitude, and wonder in wildness.

I’m the kind of person who remembers. Not just facts, but moments. The way someone’s voice cracked during a goodbye. The exact phrasing of a compliment that changed the course of my day. I remember birthdays, emotional shifts, small kindnesses. I notice patterns. I watch people—not to judge, but to understand. I listen with my whole self. I write to untangle what I feel. And I care… often more than I admit.

People often assume that because I’m thoughtful and composed, I must also be unaffected. But I feel everything. Deeply. I just carry it inwardly, like an ocean hidden beneath still water. I rarely react impulsively. I take time. I reflect. But when I act, I do so with intention. And when I care, I care with quiet devotion. You may not see grand gestures, but you’ll feel the constancy. The loyalty. The memory.

I can be misunderstood in passing—but never in depth. The more you know me, the more sense I make. The deeper you go, the more you’ll realize: I’m not guarded out of fear. I’m guarded out of clarity. Not everyone deserves access to the most sacred parts of me—and that’s not a flaw, it’s a filter.

So if you’re looking for someone who’s always “on,” who’s easy to read, who gives everything all at once—I’m not her. But if you’re looking for someone who will show up with her whole heart—even if quietly, even if slowly—someone who builds trust like a cathedral, not a bonfire—then I’m already halfway there.

So how would I describe myself? I am a thinker, a feeler, a planner, a dreamer. I am both steel and softness, logic and longing. I am someone who is always becoming. Constantly refining, always learning, always reaching for deeper truth —and I’ve learned to stop apologizing for the parts of me that don’t fit neatly into categories. For needing space. For asking deeper questions. For being both distant and devoted. Because I’ve realized that I don’t need to be easily understood to be fully real.

And I’ve come to believe this:
I wasn’t made to be simple.
I was made to be sincere.

And I hope that’s enough.

—Anj ❤