She who Held Her Tongue.

 There was a time I thought silence meant strenght. That keeping it all in made me more desirable, more disciplined. I was taught to be quiet, to be humble, to not speak unless asked.

So I mastered the art of swallowing my pain with a smile. But silence, when it's born from fear, shame, or conditioning, doesn't protect. It imprisons. 

And the longer I kept my voice locked inside the more it began to rot in my throat. 

Until one day, I cracked, not from rage, but from resurrection. 

I was told to "sit well," "speak when spoken to," "Don't question elders."

Praise came when I was quiet. Rejection came when I dared to speak up. So I learned to measure my words.

To nod instead of challenge. To say "it's okay" when it wasn't. I thought I was being good. But really, I was being groomed to be voiceless. They called it obedience. I now call it emotional suppression.

I've loved people who hurt me and never called it what it was. I've let disrespect pass in the name of "peace".

I've watched people speak over me, for me, against me, while I sat frozen in politeness. 

I stayed quiet through betrayals. Through heartbreak. And each time, I lost a piece of myself.

Until the silence became heavy. So heavy it almost pulled me under. 

And that day, for the first time, I heard myself. Not the soft, sweet voice everyone was used to. But the raw one. The one that had been silenced too long. The one that didn't care if it made others uncomfortable. 

It didn't sound like rebellion. It sounded like freedom. 

Finding my voice didn't mean I started yelling. It meant I started telling the truth. 

Sometimes the truth is soft. Sometimes it's sharp. Sometimes it's a quiet "no".

I no longer keep quiet to be liked. I speak because my voice deserves to take up space. 

To every person finding their voice, I see you. And I hope you never mute yourself again.