“Your silence will not protect you.” ~Audre Lorde
When I was little, I learned that being “good” meant being quiet.
Not just with my voice, but with my needs. My emotions. Even the space I took up.
I don’t remember anyone sitting me down and saying, “Don’t speak unless spoken to.” But I felt it—in the flinches when I was too loud, the tension when I cried, the subtle praise when I stayed calm, agreeable, small. I felt it in the way adults sighed with relief when I didn’t make a fuss. I felt it in the way I stopped asking for what I wanted.
Goodness, to me, became about not rocking the boat.
I remember once being told, “You’re such a good girl—you never complain.” And I carried that like a medal. I remember crying in my room instead of speaking up at dinner. Saying “I’m fine” even when my chest hurt with unsaid words. I didn’t want to cause trouble. I wanted to be easy to love.
So I smiled through discomfort. Nodded when I wanted to say no. Bit my tongue when I had something true to say. I became pleasant, adaptable, well-liked.
And utterly disconnected from myself.
The Body Keeps the Quiet
For a long time, I thought this was just a personality trait. I told myself I was just easygoing. Sensitive. A peacemaker.
But the truth is, I had internalized a nervous system survival strategy: fawning. A subtle, often invisible adaptation where safety is sought not through flight or fight but through appeasement. Becoming who others want you to be. Saying what they want to hear.
In my body, this looked like:
- Holding my breath in tense conversations
- Smiling when I felt anxious
- Swallowing words that rose in my throat
- Feeling exhausted after social interactions, not knowing why
It wasn’t just social anxiety or shyness. It was a deeply ingrained survival pattern—one that shaped everything from how I moved in the world to how I related to others.
I didn’t yet have the language for what was happening. But I could feel the cost.
The silence I carried started to ache—not just emotionally, but physically.
My jaw clenched. My shoulders rounded forward. My chest felt like a locked room. I felt foggy in conversations, distant in relationships, unsure of where I began and ended.
It turns out, when you chronically silence yourself to stay safe, your body starts whispering what your voice can’t say.
The First Time I Said “No”
It wasn’t a dramatic moment. There was no shouting or storming out.
It was a quiet dinner with someone I didn’t feel fully safe around. They asked for something that crossed a line. And for the first time in my adult life, instead of automatically saying yes, I paused.
I heard the old script start to run: Be nice. Don’t upset them. Just say yes, it’s easier.
But something in me—a wiser, quieter part—held steady.
I took a breath. I said, “No, I’m not okay with that.”
And even though my body trembled, I didn’t crumble. Nothing catastrophic happened. I went home and cried—not from fear, but from relief.
It was one of the first moments I realized I could choose myself. Even when it felt unnatural. Even when I wasn’t sure what would happen next.
That one moment changed something in me. Not overnight. But it planted a seed.
Reclaiming My Voice, One Breath at a Time
Reclaiming my voice hasn’t been a big, bold revolution. It’s been a slow unfolding.
It looks like:
- Taking a few seconds before I respond, even if silence feels uncomfortable
- Letting myself speak with emotion, not filtering everything to sound “reasonable”
- Naming what I need, even if my voice shakes
- Resting after interactions that leave me drained—honoring the impact
- Journaling the things I wanted to say, even if I never say them out loud
Some days I still go quiet. I still feel the old fear that speaking truth will cause rupture, rejection, or harm. Sometimes I still rehearse what I want to say five times before I say it once.
But I’ve learned that every time I listen to myself, even if just with a hand on my heart, I’m creating safety from the inside out.
And slowly, my body began to shift. I stood a little taller. My breath came a little easier. I started to feel more here—more like myself, not just a reflection of who I thought I needed to be.
What Helped Me Begin
Sometimes, what rises first isn’t courage but grief. Grief for all the moments we didn’t speak, for the versions of ourselves that held it all inside. I had to learn to meet that grief gently, not as failure, but as evidence of how hard I was trying to stay safe.
This journey didn’t begin with confidence—it began with compassion.
Noticing the times I silenced myself with curiosity instead of shame.
Asking: What did I fear might happen if I spoke? What used to happen?
Placing a hand on my chest and saying gently, “You’re not bad for being quiet. You were trying to stay safe.”
And then, when I felt ready, experimenting with small expansions:
- Leaving a voice note for a friend instead of texting
- Telling someone “I need a moment to think” instead of rushing an answer
- Saying “I actually disagree” in a conversation where I normally would’ve nodded along
None of these were big leaps. But each one taught my nervous system a new truth: it’s safe to have a voice.
If You’ve Been Quiet Too
If you’re reading this and recognizing your own silence, I want you to know:
You’re not bad for going quiet. You were wise. Your nervous system was doing its best to keep you safe.
And if you’re beginning to feel the tug to speak—to take up a little more space, to say “no” or “I don’t know” or “I need a moment”—you can trust that too.
You don’t need to become loud or forceful. Reclaiming voice doesn’t mean overpowering anyone else. It just means including yourself. Honoring your truth. Letting your body exhale.
You are allowed to be heard. You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to unfold, one breath at a time.
Your voice is not a threat. It’s a bridge—back to yourself. Your silence once kept you safe. But now, your truth might set you free.
About Maya Fleischer
Maya Fleischer is a somatic guide and creator of Unfold Consciously, a gentle space for healing emotional patterns and reconnecting with the body’s wisdom. She shares slow, heart-based practices for nervous system healing, softness, and self-trust. You can receive her free 5-day audio journey, A Gentle Practice Series for the Sensitive and Self-Censored, at subscribepage.io/audio-journey.
