The Weight Of Silence

In the quietest corners of my memory, I remember learning my first lesson: silence is golden. Not because it held wisdom, but because it kept peace. I became an expert at swallowing words before they could escape my lips, at turning my thoughts into whispers that never found their way out.

They say children should be seen and not heard. I learned this lesson too well.

I mastered the art of making myself small. Of being the good child who never caused trouble, never spoke out of turn, never disagreed. Each time I felt the urge to speak, to share, to question — I remembered the subtle head shakes, the disapproving glances, the gentle but firm reminders to keep quiet.

Silence became my first language.

My thoughts turned into paper boats I never sailed, folded neatly and stored away in the depths of my mind. Years passed, and these unspoken words accumulated like dust in the corners of my soul, weighing heavier with each passing season.

In school, I watched others raise their hands with confidence, their voices clear and strong. I envied their certainty, their ability to let words flow freely without first filtering them through layers of doubt. My hand remained down, my voice locked away, even when I knew the answers, even when my mind screamed to be heard.

The irony is deafening — in trying to be perfect, I became perfectly invisible.

In meetings now, I rehearse simple sentences in my head dozens of times before speaking. Sometimes, the moment passes before I find the courage to part my lips. My ideas die quiet deaths in the graveyard of my hesitation.

They say silence is a virtue, but they never tell you about its cost:

• The relationships that remain surface-level because vulnerability requires voice
• The promotions that pass you by because visibility demands volume
• The love that stays unexpressed because feelings need words to breathe
• The self that remains hidden because identity needs expression to grow

I’ve become fluent in the language of silence:

The slight nod when I actually disagree

The polite smile when I’m screaming inside

The “I’m fine” when I’m anything but

The quiet acceptance of others’ decisions about my life

Sometimes I wonder about all the words I’ve never spoken:

• How many forests of thoughts have grown and died within me?
• How many oceans of feelings have I swallowed?
• How many mountains of truths have I buried?
• How many universes of ideas have collapsed into black holes of silence?

The loudest scream is indeed the one trapped behind closed lips, echoing endlessly in the chambers of an untold story. My silence has become so loud it deafens me, drowning out even my inner voice until I’m not sure what it sounds like anymore.

I’ve learned that silence, like any other habit, can become an addiction. We justify it as protection, as wisdom, as necessity. But in reality, it’s a prison we build around ourselves, brick by quiet brick, until we can no longer remember what freedom sounds like.

The truth sits heavy on my tongue: I am fluent in silence I am eloquent in absence I am profound in stillness I am drowning in quiet

Yet somewhere beneath these layers of learned silence, a voice still exists. It’s small, trembling, uncertain — but it’s there. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear it whispering, reminding me that I still have stories to tell, truths to speak, songs to sing.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this now. Because sometimes the only way to find your voice is to admit you’ve lost it. Sometimes the first step to speaking is acknowledging your silence.

And perhaps, just perhaps, these written words are the first cracks in my wall of silence — small fissures letting light into a too-quiet room, showing me that even after all these years of staying silent, my voice still exists.

It’s waiting, patient but persistent, for the moment I’m ready to use it again.