The Silence I Spoke

For most of my life, I was fluent in silence. I could hold a conversation with my eyes, express sorrow through my smile, and scream without making a sound. It wasn't because I had nothing to say — it was because I had learned early on that speaking carried consequences. And so, I swallowed my voice like medicine that burned going down, hoping it would heal me from something I couldn’t name.

I grew up in a home where emotions were inconvenient. My father believed that vulnerability was a weakness, something better tucked away than explored. My mother had her own silences — long, heavy ones that draped over the dinner table like thick fog. I learned quickly that to survive in our household, you had to tiptoe around your feelings like they were sleeping lions.

So I learned the art of silence. I didn’t talk back. I didn’t cry where anyone could see. I didn’t tell my friends when I was hurting or when my father’s anger made the walls feel like they were caving in. I became the girl who smiled too much and spoke too little. Teachers praised me for being “quiet and obedient.” But they didn’t know the cost.

By the time I reached high school, silence had become second nature. People mistook it for shyness, for introversion, for politeness. I let them. It was easier to wear a label than explain that I had forgotten how to speak without trembling. When I tried to share how I felt — when I tried to speak my truth — my throat closed up like a fist, tight and angry.

The truth is, silence wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating.

There were nights I’d lie awake, replaying conversations I never had. Apologies I never gave. Defenses I never offered. I became a master of imaginary dialogues, rehearsing what I’d say if only I had the courage. But the next day, I’d sit in class or with friends, and the words would evaporate before they ever reached my lips.

Then came college. A new city. A small dorm room that felt like freedom and foreignness all at once. I was still quiet, but something began to shift. Maybe it was the late-night talks with my roommate, who asked real questions and didn’t settle for “I’m fine.” Maybe it was the literature classes that made me fall in love with stories — stories that mirrored my own unspoken ones. Or maybe I was just tired of being a ghost in my own life.

It started small. Answering a question in class. Telling a friend that I disagreed with her. Calling home and saying, “No, I don’t want to visit this weekend.” Each word felt like pushing a stone up a hill. But the more I spoke, the stronger I got.

The real turning point came during a spoken word night on campus. A friend had signed up and dragged me along. I sat in the crowd, heart pounding for her, but secretly thinking: I could never do that. And then, somewhere between the rawness of another student's poem about depression and the honesty of someone else's confession about abuse, I realized I wasn’t alone in my silence.

The following month, I signed up to perform. I almost didn’t go. I nearly deleted the poem I’d written — a piece about my childhood and the silence I’d mistaken for strength. But I showed up, heart thudding like a drum. When I took the mic, my hands shook. My voice cracked. But I spoke.

I spoke about hiding in my room when voices downstairs got loud. I spoke about pretending I was okay for years. I spoke about the fear of being seen, of being heard, of being vulnerable. And something miraculous happened: people listened. They clapped. They cried. One girl came up to me afterward and whispered, “That felt like my story too.”

In that moment, I understood something powerful: silence can be a prison, but voice is a key.

Now, years later, I still carry pieces of that silence with me. There are still days when it feels easier to retreat than to speak. But I no longer mistake silence for strength. I’ve learned that being loud isn’t the same as being heard — and being heard isn’t the same as being understood. But speaking, truthfully and vulnerably, is always a beginning.

Today, I write. I speak. I teach others how to share their stories. Because I know what it’s like to carry a voice buried deep inside you like a secret — and I know the freedom that comes from finally letting it out.

The silence I once spoke no longer defines me.

Now, I speak with intention. I speak with heart. I speak — and I am fre