"Are you nervous?"

"Terrified," I replied.

We were sitting in the front row of the huge conference arena in Blackpool, UK. It was many years ago, and I was at the British National Union of Students conference. I was about to mount the podium and make a speech to an audience of several thousand delegates, most of who would be hostile.

"Just look at the front row, and imagine you are speaking to one of the delegates," advised my student union colleague. "It always works for me."

"No," I explained. "It's not the antagonism of the crowd that bothers me, I can handle that. It's the after-debate party that terrifies me."

And thus it was; my speech to the crowd went well, and much as I would have preferred to dart back to my hotel as soon as it was over, my duties as a student representative required mingling with other delegates. What we would now call networking. So, there I was, wine glass in hand, trembling at the thought of making small talk against the backdrop of clinking glasses and laughing revellers, who would become louder and drunker and the evening wore on. I knew that I would find conversation nearly impossible as I struggled to hear what was being said. My own long sentences would become progressively more difficult to express and the nuances of my voice would be trampled underfoot by the short staccato sentences of my adversaries (sorry, acquaintances), who would dominate the conversation with their shallow machine gun fire, shooting words as bullets in their ongoing onslaught of trivia. After all, I had been there before. Many an hour during my time as an undergraduate student had been spent at parties, looking for the kitchen, where the quiet enabled the conduct of real conversation, not the spurting of sound bites. The party became a euphemism for my life; even now, four decades on, at my job in a high-tech company, I seem to be looking for the kitchen, or any quiet space, where I can have a real conversation.

As it turned out, the after-conference reception went better than expected. I was accosted by many of the conference delegates, who wanted to respond to my comments to the plenum. Because I had a role, a subject upon which my views were solicited, I actually handled the evening very well. No longer required to make small talk, I was able to wield off questions about my speech earlier in the day, as I was able to use long sentences, and more importantly, I was allowed to finish my sentences.

So, while the evening of the babbling mob passed, for the next thirty-odd years I remained with the feeling that I was weird. Most people would feel relaxed at the party and sink into terror at the thought addressing a large crowd. For me, it was the other way round.

The truth is, I thought there was something wrong with me. I didn't understand that my reactions were typical for many introverts. Nor did I understand that introversion and shyness are not the same thing. I felt uneasy, unhappy that I couldn't cope in large groups. Not fully understanding myself, there was always that feeling of being inadequate, an outsider, not fully belonging.

Like many of my fellow introverts, the turning point came after reading Susan Cain's book 'Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking'. In it she describes research that shows introverted people usually have more sensitive hearing and sight, causing us to be overwhelmed by the crowd.

I learned to accept myself and to realize that being an introvert was a gift, not a curse. My vivid imagination, my creative talents, my writing, was all part of me being an introvert. With this new awareness, I could now justify myself to others. For instance, at work, when there was to be another torturous team-building exercise (as if working together five days a week wasn't team building enough), I plucked up the courage to tell my manager that I wouldn't be participating. When asked why, I explained that I was an introvert, and the event would be unbearable. I was given a polite hearing, and for once, I felt able to explain myself without feeling guilt (not that my company is going to change its extrovert ethos any time soon).

Finally, I realize that there is nothing wrong with me.