Seen, Not Heard: Unlearning Silence

I was raised to be a perfect little girl.

Not perfect in the sense of excellence...but in the way a doll might be perfect. Pretty. Pleasant. Quiet. The kind of perfect that sits still on a shelf and never asks questions. That smiles when it’s supposed to and only speaks in ways that make others comfortable. I didn’t grow up thinking I had a voice that mattered—I grew up learning how to take up as little space as possible.

Like many girls of my generation, I was taught to be seen, not heard.

The bad things... those weren’t to be spoken about. If something awful happened, the best thing to do was pretend it didn’t. If you saw your mother crying or bruised, you looked away. You went to your room. You didn’t ask questions. You certainly didn’t tell. You kept secrets that didn’t belong to you. You smiled in church. You made your bed. You thanked people who hurt you because it was polite. And when you finally got old enough to speak, the words felt too dangerous to form.

And that kind of silence seeps in. It rewrites your DNA.

Now, as an adult, I carry the weight of those unspoken things like a second skin. It’s why I’m fiercely independent—because asking for help feels like weakness. I’d rather drown quietly than call for a lifeline. Vulnerability still tastes like shame. Letting someone see past surface level? That’s not just hard—it feels like walking barefoot into fire. But if I do let you in, if I trust you, if I choose you? I will love you with everything I’ve got. I’ll carry you through your darkest nights, even if I can’t admit I’m still bleeding from mine.

That kind of loyalty is beautiful. But it’s also been destructive. It’s cost me pieces of myself I didn’t realize I was giving away.

And creativity? Don’t even get me started. Sharing anything I write, build, create—it’s terrifying. Not because I think others will be cruel. But because I’m already my own worst critic. I tear myself down harder than anyone else could. I sit on poems for years. I rewrite the same sentences a hundred times. I hover over the “post” button with shaking hands, because nothing ever feels good enough. I was raised to perform, not to express. And there’s a huge difference.

But here’s the truth I’m slowly, painfully learning: my voice does matter.
Even if it trembles.
Even if it cracks.
Even if I was taught to hide it.

I’m unlearning silence.

One word at a time.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you are too.