Discovering Myself: When I Found Out I’m an INFP
Yesterday, I took the MBTI test. When the result came — INFP — I just stared at the screen for a while. Somehow, it felt like something inside me shifted. I wanted to know what it really meant. Who am I, actually?
For so long, I’ve felt like an alien in this world — with my whirlwind of emotions, compassion, and thoughts that never stop running deep. My emotions have always been overwhelming for me. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in this world because I feel too much.
People often say emotions shouldn’t cloud our minds, that we should think logically. But for me, separating logic and emotion was always impossible. I tried to “not feel” for decades (yes I have tried from a very young age) but it never worked. From a very young age, I realized people don’t always care as much as you do. Yet, my soft, sensitive side never went away. Even now, I can’t let it go — and honestly, I don’t think I should.
When I discovered I’m an INFP, everything suddenly started making sense. The pieces of who I am slowly began to fit together. But it’s still hard. It’s hard to survive in a world that often feels cruel when you have so much love and empathy inside you. People might think we’re weird, but we’re not — we just feel deeply like nother.
Now I understand why I’ve always daydreamed, stared at the sky, and built whole worlds in my head — where people understand and feel just like me. I have done that for years. That gave me so much peace while I was growing up. I used to think I was strange for doing that, but now I see it’s part of who I am. INFPs tend to dream about love, connection, and a perfect world — and even if that world doesn’t exist, it’s beautiful that we can imagine it.
I’ve also realized why I’ve always loved writing and journaling. Writing helps me express what’s too deep to say out loud. It takes the deep pain the burden away from your chest. The same goes for dancing — I’ve been a dancer since I was very young. Even though I’m a shy person, performing never made me nervous or shy even a bit. On stage, I could express everything I felt — through movement, through emotion. It was never about the audience; it was about how I felt while performing. It gave me so much joy, I could feel it, around stage performance I turned into a different human. And as soon as I was done, I was back to my normal shy seelf.
Sad songs always made sense. When I listen, I don’t just hear the music — I feel it. The lyrics, the melody — they touch something deep inside me. And that’s when I realize I’m not broken. I’m just me.
Yes, being an INFP hurts sometimes. Feeling everything so deeply can be painful. But it’s also a gift. It means we can see beauty where others might not. We can find meaning in small things. And no one can take that away from us.
I once tried to shut down that soft, emotional side of me. But I couldn’t — because that side is me. It defines me. And today, I’m slowly learning to accept it, its hard —its confusing.
Maybe I don’t belong everywhere — but I belong to myself. And that’s enough.
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
What does it mean to be human? How are you being differentiated from being a human and an animal.
We usually think of it as feeling, remembering, growing, and changing. Our memories shape how we see the world and how we see ourselves. But what if something happened that should change everything—like dying/on the verge of dying—and you came back, but you don’t really think about it? Would that make you less human?
Imagine this: for a moment, your heart stops. The world fades out. Then you wake up, alive again. People around you tell you what happened, how close it was. You know you almost died—but you don’t feel like you did. There’s no memory, no vision, no tunnel of light, no sense of transformation. You’re the same person you were the day before.
So what does that mean?
If you don’t remember dying/almost dying, it’s just another blank space—like a dream you forgot. You’re still you. You still laugh, still cry, still wonder about what it all means. Maybe that’s enough.
But maybe it also raises a strange question: if something as huge as death doesn’t change you, does that mean your sense of “you” is more fragile—or more solid—than you thought?
In the end, not thinking about death doesn’t make you less human or it does.
It just reminds us how much of being human depends on memory, on story, on the meaning we attach to what happens. Without that, we’re just left with the mystery of being here again—and trying to make sense of it all.