Silenced by My Own Thoughts

Silenced Between Heartbeats
I learned early how to be quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that grows when noise feels dangerous. The kind that teaches your throat to close before a sound ever reaches your lips. Silence, for me, became a reflex—automatic, practiced, praised.
“You’re so mature,” they used to say.
What they meant was obedient. What they meant was easy.
I remember the first time my body knew something was wrong before my mind did. A tightness in my chest. A twisting low in my stomach. A warning without words. I didn’t understand it then, so I did what I always did—I ignored it.
Because good people don’t overreact. Because feelings can be wrong. Because making a fuss is worse than being uncomfortable.
That’s what I was taught.
So I smiled when my insides shook. I nodded when confusion pressed against my ribs. I learned to laugh softly, carefully, so no one would ask questions I didn’t know how to answer.
The voice in my head became louder than any voice outside.
It’s not that bad. You’re imagining things. Don’t ruin the moment. Don’t make it awkward.
Every time I swallowed my discomfort, that voice grew stronger. Every time I stayed silent, it sounded more reasonable.
It sounded like me.
Silence doesn’t arrive all at once. It’s built—moment by moment, memory by memory.
It’s in the pauses you don’t fill. The boundaries you don’t draw. The truths you fold into smaller and smaller shapes until they fit somewhere you can ignore.
I became very good at folding myself.
When something felt off, I told myself it was normal. When something hurt, I told myself others had it worse. When something crossed a line, I erased the line entirely.
Because if the line didn’t exist, then nothing had been crossed.
That was easier than admitting I didn’t know how to protect myself.
There were moments I almost spoke.
Moments where the words rose to the back of my throat, heavy and urgent. Moments where honesty felt close enough to touch. But then I imagined the consequences—the looks, the sighs, the disbelief.
The disappointment.
I imagined being told I misunderstood. That I was too sensitive. That I was making something out of nothing.
And the words retreated.
Silence felt safer than being wrong about my own pain.
What no one tells you is that silence doesn’t disappear after the moment passes. It stays. It settles into your bones. It teaches your body to flinch even when nothing is happening.
Years later, I’d still feel that same tightness. Still hesitate before speaking. Still apologize for taking up space I was allowed to occupy.
I’d say “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. “I’m okay” when I wasn’t. “I don’t mind” when I did.
Because silence had trained me well.
I didn’t realize how much I had lost until someone asked me a simple question one day:
“What do you want?”
The room went quiet—not the uncomfortable kind. The honest kind.
And I had no answer.
Not because I didn’t want anything, but because I had spent so long burying my wants that they no longer had names. I could sense them—faint, distant, like echoes—but I couldn’t reach them.
I felt grief then. Not loud grief. Quiet grief.
The kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there.
I mourned the versions of myself that never spoke. The boundaries I never defended. The younger me who thought silence was kindness.
Healing didn’t begin with shouting or confrontation. It didn’t arrive as a dramatic moment or a perfect speech.
It began with a whisper.
A small, trembling sentence spoken out loud when no one else was around.
“That wasn’t okay.”
Saying it felt dangerous. My heart raced. My hands shook. The old voice screamed back—Don’t exaggerate. Don’t rewrite the past.
But I said it again.
“That wasn’t okay.”
And something shifted.
Learning to speak after years of silence is not elegant. It’s messy and uneven and often terrifying. Sometimes my voice cracks. Sometimes I cry before I finish a sentence. Sometimes I say things too late.
But I say them.
And each time I do, the silence loosens its grip.
I’m learning that discomfort is not a moral failure. That boundaries are not accusations. That my body’s warnings deserve attention, not dismissal.
I’m learning that being quiet is not the same as being safe.
There are still days when silence tempts me. When it feels easier to shrink, to nod, to let things slide. Old habits don’t vanish just because you recognize them.
But now, when that familiar tightness returns, I pause.
I listen.
And sometimes—gently, imperfectly—I speak.
Not loudly. Not confidently. But honestly.
And that is enough.