You’re not quiet. You were silenced.
The difference between the two is a whole life.
You figured it out somewhere between the hundredth “How are YOU?” and the zeroth “How are you?”
Because having a voice comes at a cost. Truth costs even more.
People like it when you understand them. But only until you disturb the image they have of themselves. They want you to listen. Not to say what you hear. They want you there. But not all of you.
And you learned. Fast. Without drama.
You became the one who listens. The one who understands. The one who doesn’t cause problems.
And you got frighteningly good at it.
So good they stopped asking what you think. So good you stopped too.
But don’t mistake quiet for weak.
You became quiet because you were reading the room. Because you knew when it was worth it and when it wasn’t.
You just stayed in that role too long.
You carry other people’s lives as if they were your own.
You sit in a café. She’s been talking about him for two hours. You check the time. You know you have things waiting. But you nod. You listen. And tomorrow you’ll call to check if she’s okay.
You know their kids’ names. The dates of their meetings. What keeps them up at 3 a.m.
And they don’t know when you last slept through the night.
Not because they don’t care, but because you stopped mentioning it.
You learned not to be a burden. Not to ask for too much. To be easy to love, which means smaller than you are.
And one day it hits you:
You’re carrying their weight like it’s yours. And you have nowhere to put your own.
And then you tried once.
You said: “I’m struggling.”
Maybe your voice shook. Maybe it didn’t.
They said: “You’ll be fine. You’re strong.”
And you nodded.
Because what else do you do when someone doesn’t really want to know?
They care. They do. They care that you’re fine, not about what it costs you when you’re not.
And that’s when you understood something that stings:
They don’t know what to do with you when you’re not holding it together.
You stopped asking.
And while protecting others, you started wearing yourself down.
You have things you could say. But you don’t.
What if it hurts them? What if they see me differently?
So you stay quiet.
And every time you stay quiet, a piece of you disappears.
Not dramatically. Quietly. Like a light going out in a room nobody’s using.
And then comes the moment you stop waiting.
Someone asks: “How are you?”
You say: “Good.”
And in that second, you don’t realize that no one is coming.
You realize you don’t need someone to come anymore.
Not because you gave up. Because you stepped up.
Then you ask yourself:
Who am I when I’m not the one who understands? Who am I when I’m not available? Who am I when I say “no”?
Maybe you don’t know the answer.
But you know this: I’m tired.
Not of life. Of waiting for someone to notice.
And that’s where the waiting ends.
What if you say “no”?
What if you don’t reply right away? What if you say, “I can’t today”?
Maybe someone will leave.
But if they leave because you’re not constantly there, they were never really there.
They loved the function. Not you.
Imagine putting on music. Loud.
Moving without a plan. Without control. Without needing to look reasonable.
And you realize: Nobody owes you permission.
There’s only the one who remains. And she’s done waiting.
So just dance.
Not tomorrow. Not when everyone’s okay. Not when everything’s done.
Now.
Close the door. Turn the music up. Move.
Not to be better. But because you’re done being half of yourself.
And if someone asks why you’re dancing — don’t explain.
And then — silence.
But this time it’s yours.
And you’re not giving it away.
Originally written in Serbian.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Phuong Nguyen on Unsplash
