“My life is not an apology, but a life. It is for itself and not for a spectacle.” R. W. Emerson
***
Four years ago I was told that I was “too old” to suffer in silence. I was a calloused 17-year-old girl of very few words sitting in the passenger’s seat of my mother’s Ford Bronco, and even then, I knew. I understood how silly it was to imply that pain had an age limit or that I was even in control of the deep blue stitch weaving its way through my grieving heart. I reluctantly accepted the blame anyway. Afraid her worried eyes would turn my vision blurry and my throat sour with shame, I let my gaze drop to my anxious, twiddling fingers. My mind drifted to an unknown future, and I began dreaming of an older, stronger, and more candid version of myself.
I assumed this version of myself would be thriving by now, or at the very least exist, but I’m in my final year of college, and I am still me—still childish.
I’ve tried my hand at vulnerability, but I still habitually hide behind forced grins and strained laughter. I still haven’t let myself suffer out loud.
Instead, I bite my tongue more often than I use it. The truth festers in my mouth until my breath reeks of guilt, and every surviving dialogue is tainted with resentment. Rotten, shallow thoughts slip out, their stench driving people away, and I tell myself I deserve to be left alone. I deserve silent solitude… I deserve quiet suffering.
But I know that I am lying to myself.
My words may be rotten, but they still have weight. They still wish to be felt and heard. I still wish to be seen. I still hope my closest companions can hear the faint whisper of my hurt through my closed mouth. I know that’s asking for a lot, but I still feel angry when they cannot understand me.
Sometimes, I try to make my silence louder with cold and sharp actions, punishing my loved ones for ignoring the thoughts they cannot hear. This juvenile silence is the same one that adults once admired and praised in me as a child (only now, it’s slightly distorted). They believed the silence made me mature and independent.
“Mature.”
“Independent.”
These aren’t words to describe a seven-year-old, but people often mistake stillness and reticence for wisdom and inner strength. For whatever reason, people adore the things they cannot understand. Seven-year-old me, an adaptable, observant child, noted this fascination. I realized that softening my hurt into a sweet silence brought me praise and support.
At first, I loved being called “independent.” It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized how destructive that word really was. “Mature” and “independent” clashed with my age and tortured me before sealing my fate beneath misunderstanding, negligence, and soul-crushing desire.
Independence and maturity became a burdensome, lonely cycle of self-destruction as every thought and action strove towards approval and glory. These words stole my freedom, and this cycle began to warp my sweet silence into a bitter and reluctant suppression of will. At eighteen, I pushed people away, secretly hoping they'd chase me and nurture me. I stayed quiet, hoping they'd tear me apart, layer by layer, for the answers I kept hidden.
By now, I should have outgrown these childish habits, but they are the legacy of the Unheard Child living inside me. This Child prays for someone to prove her wrong—to prove that love isn’t conditional. She begs for someone to show her that she can be loved, even when she is loud. She dreams to be loved in chaos as well as in tranquility. She hopes that one day, her silence might mean something more than peace. Until she gets her wish, I am subject to her reign.
***
One key difference between 17-year-old me and my current self is that my silence is strategic.
I am just as quiet as before, but I’ve created the illusion of honesty and openness. I have created the illusion of growth.
The words I write carry the weight of the Child’s worries, but lack the depth of my own adult soul. I write to show that I have been hurt, but so much of the pain is glorified and sugarcoated. I make my pain sound beautiful, and my suffering sound inspiring.
Every article I write, every poem I scribble, every journal entry I keep hidden away—they all end with threads of hope for readers to weave together. When I write, I am at my most vulnerable, but even then, I am performing. I string together words of love and light to mask the angst that sticks to my skin, and I realize how easy it is to keep everyone at a distance.
I write meaning and joy onto my trauma until I begin to forget the hurt. I get so lost in my own recounting that I begin to wonder which parts are honest and which parts are hopeful lies. My words are overused and bruised beyond salvation, but I dream of feeling and believing them wholly. The love and bravery I deliver breed inner doubt and loathing.
Some days, it really bothers me. I often feel that writing has stripped me of my self-trust and of a true community. I feel alone in my writing.
My life is handwritten and carefully scripted: everything is a performance, and nothing is mine. My grief and growth are curated for an audience I do not know. Even now, I fight the urge to end with words of wisdom to diminish any discomfort and unease, but in the coming years, I hope to build an honest version of myself, someone who doesn’t lie to comfort the crowd. So, today, I will be brave enough to present my truth in its raw form, with nothing more to say.