When Silence Was My Enemy

When Silence Was My Enemy

By afaqahmad

No one talk about When Silence Was My Enemy

For as long as I can remember, I thought silence was my greatest ally. It felt safe, like a heavy blanket I could wrap around myself whenever the world grew too loud or demanding. If I stayed quiet, I wouldn’t embarrass myself. If I avoided speaking up, I couldn’t say something stupid. And if nobody noticed me, then nobody could judge me.

But over the years, silence stopped being my protection and became my enemy. It wasn’t saving me from anything—it was keeping me trapped, alone, and voiceless.

The First Struggles

My earliest memory of this silent prison was in middle school. Teachers would ask the class a question, and though I often knew the answer, I would lower my head, praying not to be called on. My heart would pound so loudly that I was sure everyone around me could hear it. If my name was chosen, I’d stammer out a half-answer, my cheeks burning as if I’d just committed some terrible crime.

By high school, it wasn’t just about speaking in class. Ordering food at a restaurant was a trial by fire. I’d stand in line rehearsing my words in my head—Cheeseburger, no onions. Cheeseburger, no onions. By the time I got to the cashier, my mouth would dry up, and I’d mutter something incomprehensible. Once, I forgot to say “no onions” and ended up picking them off my food in shame, convinced the cashier was laughing at me from behind the counter.

Silence was easier. Silence kept me safe.

Or so I thought.

The Breaking Point

One night in college, my roommates invited me to a small diner after exams. The place smelled of coffee and fries, laughter spilling from every booth. I told myself I’d just order something simple, nothing stressful. When the waiter turned to me, though, I froze. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. Seconds stretched into an eternity.

“Uh…water,” I whispered finally. My stomach growled as I watched everyone else eat. That night, walking home, the truth hit me hard: my silence wasn’t saving me anymore. It was stealing from me—meals, friendships, experiences, life itself.

The First Victory

Change didn’t come all at once. I didn’t wake up suddenly brave. Instead, it began with hunger again—ironic, considering how often I let meals slip away out of fear.

One afternoon, I went with my cousin to a café. She ordered without hesitation, chatting easily with the barista. When it was my turn, I felt the old panic. But my cousin squeezed my arm under the table and whispered, “You can do this.”

I took a shaky breath. “Can I have the grilled chicken sandwich, please?”

The words trembled, but they came out. The waiter smiled and wrote it down as though it were the most normal thing in the world. And for the first time in years, I realized—it was normal. My fear had been lying to me all along.

That sandwich wasn’t just food. It was a victory, small but life-changing.

Steps Toward Freedom

From there, I began giving myself challenges, like tiny missions in a secret game only I knew I was playing.

Mission One: Say “hello” to the cashier instead of sliding money silently across the counter.

Mission Two: Ask a professor a question after class, even if my voice trembled.

Mission Three: Call to schedule a doctor’s appointment without writing a script beforehand.

Every success was like cracking open a locked door. My world grew wider with each step.

The hardest mission of all was making a friend. I had spent years on the outskirts, watching groups form while I sat alone. Then, one day, a girl from my psychology class sat next to me. She smiled, and every part of me wanted to vanish. But I thought about my sandwich. My cashier hellos. My tiny victories.

So I said, “Hi.”

Just one word. But for me, it felt like lifting a boulder.

She introduced herself. We began talking, slowly, awkwardly, but talking nonetheless. By the end of the semester, she was my study partner. Eventually, she became my first real friend—the kind I could laugh with, cry with, and share silence with comfortably, not fearfully.

Learning to Speak

Even now, social anxiety hasn’t disappeared. I still rehearse phone calls in my head, still overthink conversations after they’re done. There are days when silence tempts me to return to its false safety. But I’ve learned an important truth: silence isn’t my shield. It’s the enemy that once convinced me I had no voice.

Now, when it whispers, I push back. I order confidently in restaurants, even adding little jokes to the waiter. I speak up in meetings, even if my hands shake under the table. I tell my friends when I’m hurting instead of bottling it up.

And most importantly, I remind myself of something simple yet powerful: my voice is worth hearing, even when it quivers.

The Triumph

Looking back, I see my life as a series of tiny triumphs stacked like stepping stones. Ordering food. Saying hello. Making a friend. Each moment was small, but together they built a bridge that carried me out of silence and into a life where connection, laughter, and love were finally possible.

Silence still lingers at the edges, waiting for me to slip back into its grip. But now, I know better. Silence isn’t my friend. It’s my enemy.

And every word I speak, no matter how soft, is my victory.