“You’re so shy… you’re so quiet… shy girl. Why are you sitting in the corner all by yourself? So you’re still shy.”
Words I’ve heard countless times, from strangers, from relatives, from people I know. Shy, quiet, reserved. The girl in the room who smiles, who watches, who never says too much. But I wonder, has anyone ever considered that what looks like silence is, in truth, survival?
Writing has always been my everything. I didn’t choose it the way you choose a hobby, it found me. My mind picked up words long before I understood what it means to write. To write is my lifeline. I wrote to drown the noise at home, to calm the storm inside my head. While other kids raised their hands in class, spoke their ideas with confidence, intelligence pouring out effortlessly, I sat in silence. My hands shook, my heart raced, I couldn’t do it.
I’m always afraid.
I hide behind words. Behind poetry. Behind the things I create. It’s the only place I feel safe, the only place I feel like myself. When I write, I don’t feel suffocated, I’m not afraid. So I write about everything. When I’m lonely, when I’m happy, when I try not to exist, I write everything.
I remember one afternoon with my family. I was really happy, you could hear my laughter from a distance. Someone announced that each of us would be given a chance to speak, and in an instant, the joy I had felt disappeared. My chest tightened, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think past the frantic pounding of my heart. I walked away, planning to return when it was over. But when I walked back in, my uncle smiled. “We were waiting for you! Please, say something.”
So I did the only thing panic allowed.
“Let’s… let’s bow down for a word of prayer.”
I don’t know how to pray. Prayer has never come easily to me. I want God to exist but I carry the fear that He might not. And in that room, it felt as though everyone could see it. They saw the trembling of my hands, the fear in my eyes, it was clear to them all, this was not faith. It was fear.
I think it was then that I began to understand…Silence is safe.
Silence is easy.
When I’m silent no one asks for more.
When I’m silent no one sees me trembling.
The truth is I can never find the courage to speak without shaking. Rooms don’t feel safe, faces don’t feel safe.
But words have always been safe. To write is the only thing I’m good at. To write is the only way I know how to speak. I’d like to stand boldly, to speak beyond my fear, but anxiety still holds my tongue hostage.
So I write.
It’s the only way I know how to speak.
PIECESBYRUTH 