The Quiet Between My Words Screams the Loudest

The Quiet Between My Words Screams the Loudest

I have never been the loudest voice in the room.

I’m the one who pauses before I speak, who weighs every word, who often bites her tongue and lets others take the space I was never taught to claim. People think quietness means peace. That silence means agreement. That the absence of words equals the absence of thought.

They are wrong.

Because sometimes, the quiet between my words holds more weight than the words themselves.

Sometimes, it screams.

Not All Silence Is Empty

Growing up, I learned early that being quiet was easier. Easier than arguing. Easier than explaining myself to people who didn’t care to understand. I learned how to smile politely, how to nod when I disagreed, how to stay in the background and observe.

But inside me, entire conversations were unfolding—conversations I never dared to speak out loud.

The teacher said something unfair? I wrote an entire speech in my mind.

A friend crossed a line? I drafted a poem in my head titled “Things I Should Have Said.”

A loved one hurt me? I crafted monologues behind my lips that no one would ever hear.

So no—my silence has never been empty.

It’s been full.

Of fear. Of fire. Of words unsaid.

The Spaces Between the Sentences

Have you ever talked to someone and thought, They’re not saying everything?

That’s me.

My eyes will flicker. My hands will fidget. I’ll start a sentence and stop halfway through—not because I’ve lost my train of thought, but because I’ve reached the edge of comfort. Because what I want to say feels too heavy to place in the middle of a casual conversation.

And yet, the silence that follows hums like electricity.

It’s my version of a scream.

How Loud Is a Whisper?

There are days when I write instead of speak.

When I write, the quiet becomes color. Rhythm. Thunder on paper. I don’t have to second-guess. I don’t have to smile when I’m breaking. I can tell the truth without flinching.

In my journals, the quiet roars.

"I’m not okay."

"I wish someone would ask twice."

"I want to be seen—not the version of me that’s easy to love, but the version that aches quietly behind closed doors."

Sometimes people read my writing and say, “This is so powerful. I never knew you felt this way.”

And I always want to reply, “You did. You just didn’t listen closely enough.”

The Weight of Being Unheard

It’s exhausting—holding back so much just to keep the peace.

We live in a world that rewards loudness. Outspoken confidence. Voices that take up space without apology. But what about those of us who speak in pauses, who write instead of shout, who carry storms inside still waters?

We’re not broken.

We’re tuned differently.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to be heard.

Sometimes I sit in a room full of people and wonder if anyone can hear me even when I’m not speaking. If anyone notices that my silence is begging to be understood.

Listening Beyond the Noise

Here’s what I’ve learned:

To truly hear someone, you can’t just listen to what they say—you have to listen to what they don’t say.

Listen for the drop in their voice. The pause before the sentence ends. The sigh that sounds like surrender. The smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. The message wrapped in hesitation.

That’s where the truth lives.

That’s where the quiet screams.

I’m Still Quiet—but I’m No Longer Small

I may never be the one shouting from rooftops or commanding a stage.

But my silence is no longer a weakness.

It is a choice. A strength. A sharpened blade that cuts deeper than noise ever could.

And now, I’ve found the courage to let some of that quiet speak—in poems, in prose, in the spaces where truth echoes the loudest.

Because the quiet between my words?

That’s where you’ll find the real me.

What about you?

Have you ever felt like your silence was louder than your voice? I'd love to hear how you express the things you can't always say out loud. Share your story in the comments—I’m listening.