I will use my voice

To My Fear of Speaking Up,

I’m done.

There’s no official notice, no warning, and definitely no two-week grace period. You don’t deserve one. You’ve been running my life for too long, and I’m finally ready to walk away.

You’ve kept me quiet in rooms where my voice needed to let out fire. You’ve made me nod and smile when I wanted to scream. You’ve sat in the back of my mind whispering, “Don’t say anything. Don’t start drama. Just let it go.” And I believed you. Over and over again, I let things slide. I told myself I was being mature. That I was keeping the peace. That silence meant strength.

But sometimes silence can shatter the heart. Sometimes Silence can create a prison for the heart.

I can’t even count how many times I’ve walked away from a conversation feeling small. How many times I’ve let someone talk down to me and just took it. How many times I’ve said it’s fine when it absolutely wasn’t. I’ve lost so many pieces of myself trying to avoid conflict, trying to be liked, trying to be easygoing.

It’s not like I don’t have things to say. I do. I’ve replayed entire situations in my head days later, thinking of what I should have said, what I wanted to say. You know that feeling—when you’re standing there, heart pounding, words on the tip of your tongue, but they don’t come out? That’s you. That’s fear.

I used to think maybe I was just shy. Or maybe I was too nice. But no. The truth is, I’ve been scared—scared of speaking up, scared of standing my ground, scared of being “too much.” I thought if I said how I really felt, people would turn on me. Think I was dramatic. Or rude. Or not worth listening to.

So instead, I let people take advantage. I let them cross my boundaries, talk to me however they wanted, and treat me like I didn’t matter. And every time I stayed quiet, I was really just telling myself, “You don’t matter either.”

Well, I’m not doing that anymore.

I’m tired of apologizing when I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m tired of saying yes when I want to say no. I’m tired of playing the role of the calm, chill, quiet girl who never stands up for herself. That’s not who I am—not anymore.

I’ve had enough of letting fear decide how I move through this world.

I want to be the version of me who says, “Actually, that’s not okay.” The one who calls people out when they’re being disrespectful. The one who protects her energy, her peace, and her boundaries—without guilt.

I want to be loud if I need to be. Firm when I have to be. And unapologetic always.

I know you’ll try to come back. You always do. The next time someone says something slick, or gives me that attitude, or tries to walk over me, you’ll show up in my head like you always have—telling me to let it go. Telling me it’s not worth it. Telling me I’m overthinking.

But this time, I’m not listening.

This time, I’m choosing me.

That means I’m allowed to take up space. To have a voice. To speak—even when it’s hard, even when it’s awkward, even when people don’t like what I have to say. I’m allowed to stand up for myself without explaining or overthinking or worrying how it’s going to be received. I’m not here to make everyone else comfortable anymore.

Do you know how much I’ve held in because of you?

Moments where I should’ve defended myself but didn’t. Times where I was hurt but said nothing. Conversations I avoided because I didn’t want to “make things worse.” But do you know what actually made things worse? Not saying anything at all.

That silence built up inside me like a pressure cooker. I started carrying resentment around like a second skin. I didn’t just feel quiet—I felt invisible.

And I’m done feeling invisible.

I don’t want to be afraid of confrontation anymore. I don’t want to be the person who stays quiet to keep the vibe good, while my own energy is getting drained. I want to trust that I can speak for myself—and still be safe, and still be respected.

And if I lose people because of that? So be it. If someone walks away because I finally found the courage to say “That’s not okay with me,” then they were never supposed to stay.

I don’t have to be small to be loved. I don’t have to be quiet to be accepted. I don’t have to be agreeable to be enough.

So this letter? It’s my way of saying goodbye to the version of me that you controlled. The version that stayed silent when she wanted to scream. The version that shrunk herself so others could stay big.

I’m not her anymore.

I’m going to speak up—even when my voice shakes. Even when my hands get sweaty. Even when I feel sick to my stomach afterward. Because being brave doesn’t mean not being scared. It means doing it anyway.

And I will. From now on, I will.

So pack your bags, Fear. You’re no longer in charge here.

You don’t get to sit in the back of my head, controlling my every move. You don’t get to keep me quiet. You don’t get to make me feel like I’m too much for standing up for myself.

I’m reclaiming my voice.

And I’m going to use it.

Sincerely,

Me