Holding the Door Open in a Loud World

I recently read part of an Atlantic article by Arthur C. Brooks (The Bliss of a Quieter Ego) about our culture of “loud egos.” I couldn’t access the entire article, but I didn’t need to. The opening paragraphs were enough to get me thinking—not just about the world around me, but about myself as a writer.

In that article, Brooks stated that researchers found measurable increases in narcissistic traits over recent decades, particularly among younger generations. Apparently, studies suggest that more people today score higher on assessments of self-focus and entitlement than in the past, raising questions about how culture shapes identity and behavior.

In a world full of voices competing to be heard, I’ve found myself wondering where I fit. I believe deeply in the power of writing, but I also question what it means to share that writing without becoming part of the noise. Is there a tension between wanting to contribute something meaningful and not wanting to add to the volume?

As a teacher, I’ve noticed changes over the years. More students seem determined to be heard than to listen. More parents explain away behavior rather than helping children take responsibility for it. Sometimes it feels as though volume has replaced reflection. Over the last couple of years especially, I’ve watched teachers struggle in ways I’ve never seen before, often because of the behaviors students bring into the classroom and the expectations that follow them.

What I see in the classroom doesn’t stay there—it shows up in everyday moments outside of school as well.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked out of Starbucks recently and the door has nearly hit me in the face—moments where, in the past, someone would have paused, turned, and held it open. It’s a small thing, but it says a lot about how little we sometimes consider the people around us.

It makes me think about the importance of reflection at home. As parents, there’s value in pausing, in not giving in to every want or need in the moment. When everything is immediate, when every desire is met instantly, it can quietly teach children that patience, effort, and collective responsibility don’t matter as much. And yet, those are the very qualities that help classrooms—and communities—function.

And yet, after COVID, I discovered something unexpected about myself.

While many people struggled with being alone, I found myself appreciating it. Solitude didn’t make me lonely. It made me grounded.

I found comfort in reading, writing, walking, paddling on quiet water, sitting with my dog, and simply thinking. Those moments reminded me who I was when the noise faded away. They echoed something I’ve come to believe more deeply: that reflection isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity.

What’s interesting is that most people who know me would probably describe me as an extrovert. I enjoy good conversation, gatherings with close friends, and meaningful connections. But I’ve realized I also have a strong introverted side. I walk the fence line between the two worlds.

Maybe that’s why being a writer feels like such a contradiction.

I believe deeply in the power of writing. I’ve seen journals help children, families, and adults make sense of their lives. I want more people to write. I want more people to read. I want words to heal.

But promoting my own work often feels uncomfortable.

Telling you how wonderful a friend is? Easy.

Telling you why you should read my writing? Much harder.

In a world full of influencers, I’ve found myself asking a different question: Is it possible to be visible without becoming self-absorbed? Is it possible to share your work while still caring deeply about other people?

I hope the answer is yes.

Because I still believe the world needs more quiet reflection and less performance.

More curiosity and less certainty.

More conversations and fewer broadcasts.

More people holding the door open for one another.

And maybe, just maybe, a few more journals sitting on nightstands.