Dark Trauma of silence

As a child, I was full of words, bursting with stories, laughter, and curiosity. I would talk to anyone who would listen—my parents, my friends, even strangers at the marketplace. Words were my way of making sense of the world, of expressing joy, and of connecting with people. My voice was my identity.

But one day, everything changed.

I was just a little boy when the abuse began. At first, it was subtle—harsh words, angry stares, threats that made my small hands tremble. Then, it grew darker, turning into something I couldn't understand, something I couldn't escape. The hands that were supposed to protect me became the ones that hurt me. The walls that surrounded me at home no longer felt safe. My childhood, once filled with dreams, turned into a prison of fear and silence.

Each time it happened, I withdrew a little more. I stopped laughing. I stopped telling stories. I stopped speaking. My words, once so abundant, became trapped in my throat like birds in a cage. If I remained silent, maybe they wouldn’t notice me. If I remained silent, maybe they would stop.

But they didn’t.

The world around me continued as if nothing had changed, but inside, I was fading. Teachers noticed my silence, but they only called me “shy.” Friends asked why I didn’t talk much anymore, but I just smiled, unable to explain. No one saw the battle inside me, the way my words screamed in my head but never made it past my lips. I had lost my voice, not just in the literal sense, but in the deepest way possible—I had lost the ability to express my pain, to ask for help, to tell my story.

Years passed. The abuse eventually stopped, but the silence remained. Even when I was no longer in danger, I couldn’t bring myself to speak freely again. It was as if my voice had been buried with the memories. I was now a young man, 22 years old, but I felt like a shadow of who I used to be.

People assumed I was quiet by nature, that I simply preferred solitude. They didn’t know that silence wasn’t my choice—it was my survival mechanism. The fear that had silenced me in childhood still held me captive.

But deep inside, I longed to be heard again. I wanted to reclaim the voice that was stolen from me.

One evening, I sat alone in my room, staring at a blank notebook. The urge to speak was there, but the words refused to come out. So instead, I picked up a pen and began to write. At first, it was difficult—each word felt like a wound reopening—but I kept going. I wrote about my childhood, about the boy who used to talk endlessly, about the pain that silenced him. And for the first time in years, I felt a flicker of relief.

Writing became my refuge. Through ink and paper, I found a new way to express myself. My words, though silent, began to heal me. And then, something unexpected happened. I shared my writing online, anonymously at first, just to see if anyone would understand. The responses were overwhelming. Strangers from across the world sent messages, sharing their own stories of pain and survival. I realized I wasn’t alone.

Encouraged by their words, I took a step further—I started recording my stories. My voice, shaky at first, found strength with each recording. I created a YouTube channel, not just to share my experiences, but to help others who had suffered in silence like me. Slowly, I began to break free from the chains of my past.

The boy who once spoke freely had been silenced, but the man he had become was finding his voice again. And this time, he wouldn’t let anyone take it away.

For those who have suffered in silence, know this: your voice still exists within you. It may take time, it may take healing, but it is never truly lost. And when you find the courage to speak again, the world will listen.