When They Stayed Silent
A reflection on grief, dignity, and learning to witness myself when others could not.
“When I spoke my truth, some disappeared.
Others stayed, but said nothing.
And somehow, their silence hurt more than their absence.”
— Breaking the Silence, Part IV
There’s a moment after you finally tell the truth — when the noise fades, and what remains is quiet.
Not peace. Not closure.
Just quiet.
I used to think silence meant safety.
Now I know it can also mean avoidance — the place people retreat to when truth makes them uncomfortable.
The Space Between Us
When I began to speak about my mother’s hidden grief, my family’s unspoken patterns, and my own exhaustion from carrying it all, the responses were… muted.
Some changed the subject.
Some spiritualized it: “We all have our struggles; just focus on gratitude.”
Others avoided me altogether, as if honesty was contagious.
Their silence wasn’t always cruel — sometimes it was fear.
The kind that comes from never having seen truth held gently before.
But it still hurt.
It hurt to realize that the people who once came to me for comfort could not offer it in return.
It hurt to see that my vulnerability made others look away.
What Their Silence Revealed
At first, I made their quiet my mirror.
I thought, Maybe I said too much. Maybe I was too intense, too raw.
But over time, I realized that silence often says more about someone’s readiness than your worth.
People can only meet you at the depth they’ve met themselves.
And truth, no matter how loving, exposes where connection was conditional.
Their silence revealed who could stand in the fire of authenticity with me —
and who was still learning to find their own voice.
The Familiar Echo
In their quiet, I heard the echo of my lineage —
the same silence that surrounded my mother when she cried behind closed doors.
The same silence that told generations of women, “Don’t speak. Don’t feel. Don’t make anyone uncomfortable.”
That realization softened me.
I stopped trying to get answers from those who couldn’t give them.
Instead, I began to hold myself the way I had always wished to be held —with presence, not platitudes.
Silence stopped being punishment.
It became prayer.
An invitation to listen inward and let my own voice become the one that soothed me.
Learning to Witness Myself
There’s a kind of power that grows when you stop needing validation to confirm your truth.
When no one rushes to comfort you, you learn how to mother yourself.
When no one says, “I see you,” you learn how to look yourself in the eyes and say, “I do.”
That is the hidden gift of abandonment: it births self-witnessing.
And self-witnessing is the soil where sovereignty grows.
I began to realize that silence from others doesn’t mean the truth wasn’t worth telling.
It just means the vibration of truth changes the room — and not everyone is ready to stand inside that new frequency.
Holding Grace and Boundaries
Still, I don’t demonize those who stayed silent.
Their discomfort is part of their journey.
And perhaps my words stirred something they weren’t ready to see.
But I no longer shrink to make others comfortable.
Love without truth isn’t love — it’s performance.
And peace that asks you to betray yourself isn’t peace — it’s suppression.
As I learn to hold my truth with compassion,
I also learn that grace and boundaries are not opposites — they are sacred partners.
This is where I stand now: open-hearted, clear, and free.
A Blessing For Those
Met With Silence
To the ones who spoke with trembling voices and were met with quiet —
you are not invisible.
Your words were not wasted.
Energy heard what ears could not.
May you trust the ripples of your truth,
even when the surface seems still.
May your courage echo in places unseen,
and may your own heart always answer back, “I hear you.”
Written with my mother’s blessing. 🌹
