I Write Because Talking Never Worked

Talking was supposed to help.

That’s what everyone said.

“Say it out loud.”

“Let it off your chest.”

“Use your words.”

So I tried.

I tried in living rooms where the TV was louder than my feelings.

I tried in friendships where jokes were safer than honesty.

I tried in relationships where my silence was more comfortable than my truth.

Every time I spoke, my words came out wrong—too heavy, too emotional, too much.

Or worse, they came out small. Dismissed. Interrupted. Forgotten.

So I stopped talking.

Not all at once. Slowly. Quietly. Like someone closing a door without making a sound.

What people didn’t notice was that I didn’t stop feeling.

I just stopped explaining.

I learned early that talking requires permission. Someone has to listen. Someone has to care. Someone has to stay. Writing doesn’t ask for any of that. Writing waits. Writing doesn’t interrupt. Writing doesn’t tell you to calm down or get over it.

Writing lets you finish your sentence.

The first thing I ever wrote was ugly.

Angry. Messy. Full of half-formed thoughts and sharp edges. I didn’t plan to show it to anyone. It was never meant to be read. It was meant to survive me.

That night, I realized something important:

On paper, my thoughts made sense.

On paper, I wasn’t “too much.”

On paper, I didn’t have to translate my pain into something palatable.

I could just tell the truth.

Talking always felt like standing on a stage without a script. People stared, waiting for the right words, the right tone, the right timing. Writing felt like sitting alone in the dark, finally honest, finally safe.

When I talked, I softened things.

When I wrote, I didn’t.

I wrote about the things I was told not to feel.

The anger I swallowed.

The sadness I learned to joke about.

The loneliness that followed me even in crowded rooms.

I wrote because talking required courage I didn’t always have. Writing only required honesty.

People think silence means strength or weakness. They rarely consider exhaustion. Talking is tiring when you’ve spent your whole life being misunderstood. Explaining yourself again and again feels like begging to be seen.

Writing is different. Writing doesn’t argue back. It doesn’t twist your meaning. It doesn’t ask you to justify your emotions. It lets you be precise. It lets you be raw.

Sometimes people read what I write and say,

“I didn’t know you felt like that.”

I always want to answer,

“I tried to tell you.”

But I don’t.

I just keep writing.

Because writing is where I put the things that would’ve broken me if I’d kept them inside. Writing is where I speak without shaking. Writing is where my voice finally sounds like mine.

Talking never worked because the world wasn’t ready to listen. Writing worked because it didn’t need permission.

I don’t write to impress.

I don’t write to be famous.

I write to breathe.

I write because silence was killing me, and talking couldn’t save me.

I write because some stories don’t survive conversation.

I write because my truth deserves a place where it won’t be interrupted.

And maybe—just maybe—someone out there will read my words and realize they aren’t alone. That they don’t have to be loud to be heard. That it’s okay if their voice only shows up on a page.

If you’re like me—if talking never worked for you either—then write.

Write the things you were afraid to say.

Write the feelings you were told were wrong.

Write until the weight lifts, even just a little.

Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do

is stop explaining yourself out loud

and start telling the truth quietly.