When Professionalism Meets Silence

I took notes instead of shouting.

Dates, names, times.

Tiny lifelines written in bullet points

because documentation

became the only language they listened to.

They said "just get it done,"

as if time bent for me,

as if I could carry the weight

of five job titles

and call it gratitude.

They called it feedback.

I called it rewriting history.

Edits on edits on edits,

until my voice sounded like theirs

and my own disappeared

somewhere between "that's great"

and "don't take it personally."

Meetings turned to monologues,

praise was rationed like sunlight in winter,

and still, I built campaigns out of chaos,

quiet brilliance mistaken for compliance.

So I wrote it down.

Every pattern, every dismissal, every late-night "Ha, no."

Not for revenge,

but for record.

For proof that endurance is not consent,

and silence was never agreement.

If you’ve ever swallowed exhaustion

to keep the peace,

or worked yourself hollow

just to be seen,

this is your reminder:

Professionalism should never mean martyrdom.

Boundaries are not rebellion.

And the ones who document

are not difficult.

They’re surviving.