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How I Silenced Myself to Stay Safe—& What It Means to Reclaim My Voice
When I was little, I learned that being “good” meant being quiet.
Not just with my voice—but with my needs, my emotions, and even the space I took up.
I don’t remember anyone telling me not to speak. But I felt it.
In the way adults flinched when I was loud.
In the way tension filled the room when I cried.
In the way I was praised for being easygoing, calm, and self-contained.
I learned that goodness looked like being agreeable.
Pleasant. Non-disruptive.
Someone who didn’t rock the boat.
And so, I didn’t.
I smiled through discomfort.
I nodded when I wanted to say no.
I bit my tongue when I had something true to say.
And for a long time, I thought that was just my personality.
I told myself I was just sensitive. A peacemaker. Someone who liked harmony.
But there was something deeper happening—a pattern I didn’t yet have words for: Fawning.
That nervous system survival state where, instead of fleeing or fighting, you appease. You become who others want you to be. You say what they want to hear. You prioritize emotional safety over truth.
In my body, it looked like:
>> Holding my breath in tense conversations
>> Smiling when I felt anxious
>> Swallowing words that rose in my throat
>> Feeling foggy or far away in social settings
And over time, the silence started to ache.
My jaw was always tight. My shoulders curled in. My chest felt locked. It was as if my voice had moved out and left only tension behind.
The First Time I Said No
It wasn’t dramatic. No shouting. No slammed doors.
Just a quiet dinner with someone I didn’t feel safe around. They asked for something that crossed a line. And for the first time in my adult life, I paused.
I heard the old script starting up: Be nice. Don’t upset them. Say yes. It’s easier.
But something in me held steady.
I said: “No, I’m not okay with that.”
My voice trembled, but I didn’t disappear. They didn’t explode. The world didn’t end.
I went home and cried—from relief.
That was the first moment I realized: I could choose myself.
Reclaiming Voice, One Breath at a Time
This hasn’t been a loud or dramatic journey. It’s been a quiet unfolding.
It looks like:
>> Taking a breath before I respond
>> Letting my voice carry emotion
>> Naming what I need, even if it feels messy
>> Journaling what I was too scared to say aloud
Some days I still go quiet. I still feel the old fear that truth will lead to rejection or rupture. But I’ve learned that even when I whisper truth to myself, it counts.
Every time I check in before I answer…every time I pause instead of pleasing…every time I place a hand on my heart and say, “You’re allowed to be here”—I am reclaiming my voice.
It Didn’t Start with Confidence
It started with grief. Grief for all the times I didn’t speak.
Grief for the version of me who held it all in.
And it started with compassion.
Asking: What did I fear might happen if I spoke? What used to happen?
And then saying, “You’re not wrong for being quiet. You were trying to stay safe.”
That compassion gave me space to experiment:
>> Leaving a voice note instead of typing
>> Saying, “I’ll need to think about that.” instead of rushing to agree
>> Speaking my truth even when it trembled
Each time, my body learned something new: It’s safe to have a voice.
If You’ve Been Quiet Too
If you’re reading this and recognizing your own silence…please know: you are not alone.
You are not bad for softening yourself to survive. You are not weak for being careful.
And you do not have to become loud or forceful to reclaim your voice. You only have to begin listening to it.
Let it be messy. Let it be soft. Let it take time.
You are allowed to speak.
You are allowed to pause.
You are allowed to unfold.
Your truth isn’t too much. It’s yours.
~
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