The Strength in Silence
For a long time, I believed silence was weakness.
It meant swallowing words that burned in my chest, pretending not to notice what was wrong, and staying small to survive. I grew up thinking silence was how you kept the peace, even when it cost you your own.
So when I finally found my voice, I promised myself I’d never be quiet again. I started speaking out about the things I used to hide. I used my story, my art, my platforms, and every space I could to break the pattern of silence that held me hostage for years.
And I’m still proud of that. I meant it then, and I mean it now. But here’s what I’ve learned along the way: speaking out doesn’t mean I hate silence. In fact, silence has become one of my greatest teachers.
The Power of Silence
Silence used to feel powerless. Now, it feels like control. It’s power in choosing when to respond and when to let things go. It’s knowing that I don’t have to defend myself to people who are determined not to understand. It’s realizing that not every storm deserves my energy. There’s strength in stepping back, in observing instead of reacting. Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
The Healing in Silence
For years, I lived surrounded by noise, chaos, yelling, and the sound of survival. When life finally got quiet, it scared me. But over time, I realized that stillness wasn’t emptiness. It was space. Silence became where I met myself again.
It’s where the shaking stopped, where I learned to breathe deeply, and where I started to trust calm again. It’s the space that lets me regather and reflect, to sort through what’s mine to carry and what isn’t. When I sit in silence now, I hear things I couldn’t before: truth, intuition, and forgiveness. It’s where I remember that healing doesn’t always need to be loud. Sometimes it just needs room.
The Calm in Silence
These days, my favorite kind of quiet lives in the little moments: painting beside my daughter, early mornings in the shop before the machines start, and hiking a trail where the only sound is wind and breath and heartbeat. That kind of silence isn’t lonely. It’s full, full of peace, gratitude, and clarity. It’s where I can check in with myself before the world gets loud again. It’s where reflection turns into direction.
Full Circle
I used to believe speaking out made me strong. Now I know that silence, the right kind of silence, makes me whole. Because peace doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it paints quietly beside you. Sometimes it’s just knowing you can speak and choosing not to. That’s the kind of silence I live for now. Not the one that hides.
The one that heals, regathers, and reflects.
