By Jenna
This one’s hard to write.
Silence is what I know.
It became my default — a coping mechanism in response to mistreatment, unethical behavior, and inappropriate situations.
Silence helped me keep the peace.
It stopped me from hurting anyone — even if that person was hurting me.
I once got bullied in an office environment by a previous employer. The aggression and criticism was obvious — and it wasn’t private. Everyone in the office could see it.
After one particularly brutal encounter, a kind, soft-spoken coworker came up to me and asked, with genuine concern,
“Why don’t you stand up for yourself?”
I wanted to cry.
But even my emotions were always in check.
I didn’t know how to let them out — not safely.
I froze. Completely.
My mind went blank — no thoughts, no words. Just white noise.
Because of my ADHD, I worry that if I do speak up, what comes out might be jumbled, confusing, or emotionally tangled.
I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing — or that it’ll come out wrong and I’ll look foolish.
So instead, I say nothing at all.
She noticed my discomfort and gently walked away. I could tell she felt horrible. She wanted to help. But she didn’t know how.
And I didn’t know how to let her.
What I wanted to say was:
Because I’m afraid.
Afraid of what would happen next.
Afraid I’d lose my job.
Afraid that if I release my emotions, they’ll pour out all at once — and I’ll scare someone, or scare myself.
So I stayed silent.
Because if I don’t make noise, no one gets hurt.
At least that’s what I told myself.
How Quiet Can Start
I’m naturally quiet. I’m an introvert.
And for most of my life, I was undiagnosed with ADHD — which only made my communication struggles harder to understand, both for me and those around me.
I started learning to quiet my outer voice — letting others speak for me or interpret what I meant.
I internalized the message that maybe I really did need help speaking for myself.
That maybe I couldn’t trust my own voice.
They seemed to function better, more easily.
So I let them take over.
One moment at a time.
And that began the spiral:
Who I am.
What I can and can’t do.
What my “defects” are.
As a child, you’re often taught to bite your tongue — so you don’t say something you regret.
You’re taught to share only the positive things.
No one wants to hear about pain, sadness, or discomfort.
So you start smiling.
You start nodding.
You start pleasing.
And slowly, quietly…
You disappear.
Quiet is Radical Inner Strength
Some people look at quietness and see weakness.
They assume submission, passivity, fragility.
But what they don’t see — what they’ll never know — is how much radical strength it takes to stay quiet.
To hold it in.
To swallow your words, your rage, your hurt… for the sake of peace.
Quietness can be a form of survival.
It’s a kind of strength that doesn’t always look heroic — but it is.
It’s showing up to a social situation knowing people will speak for you — and letting them. Not because you’re weak, but because it’s the only way to make it through.
It’s keeping a smile on your face when your brain is screaming.
It’s staying polite when your heart is in pain.
It’s radical.
It’s resilience.
One of the books that helped me recognize my own strength is From Panic to Power by Lucinda Bassett. A quote from her that’s never left me is:
“I’m glad I had anxiety disorder. It was a curse, but it was a blessing as well. It forced me to acquire coping skills that the average person could definitely use, but will probably never be in enough pain to investigate.”
To all my quiet, beautiful, strong souls — I see you.
You are not invisible.
You are not broken.
You are not weak.
Let’s begin to reclaim our voices. One word at a time.
Let’s be heard.
With you always,
Jenna
