Why Did I Learn to Stay Quiet?

Looking back at the years that led me here often submerges me in a multitude of emotions. Happiness, because of the beautiful childhood memories that run rampant in my heart. Sadness, for what will never be again. And so many feelings in between.

As much as I try to shut the door on negativity, anger creeps in when I reminisce. Anger at myself for the times I wasn’t true to my soul—for not speaking up when the little girl inside needed me to. Anger at everyone who seemingly benefitted from my silence. This anger became the stone on which my healing was built. I knew I had to look deeper, to sit with and comfort Abi, so that one day she could look in the mirror and say, “I did the best I could with what I knew.”

I often wonder why I was so reluctant to voice my thoughts when I was younger.

I grew up with siblings—raised under the same roof, by the same parents—yet they found their voices so easily. They were outspoken, sure of their place in the room, confident in what they wanted. And me? I learned how to listen. How to shrink. How to stay quiet. I suppose it’s true what they say: no two siblings have the same childhood. The same environment, yes—but not the same experience. Not the same moments. My parents gave me the world. Truly. That’s a story for another day—one filled with gratitude, love, and a debt I could never fully repay.

This leads to the gnawing wonder of where, when, and why I learned to silence myself in the midst of so much love and support. How I became so skilled at reading the room, choosing harmony over honesty, pleasing others before ever asking what I needed. Was it something said? Something unsaid? Or simply something I absorbed quietly, the way children do?

I don’t have all the answers yet. But I’m asking the questions now. And maybe that, in itself, is the beginning of finding my voice.

Could it have been the quiet weight of societal expectations—the unspoken rules placed on daughters to be responsible, nurturing, steady? The ones who watch, anticipate, and hold everyone together without being asked. Or perhaps it runs deeper than that. Generational patterns embedded into my cells, whispering that my purpose was to heal others. To soften their sadness. To sit with their loneliness. To carry what was never mine to carry.

Somewhere between caring and existing, I lost myself. In trying not to cause pain, I ignored my own. I became so focused on being what everyone needed that I forgot to ask who I was becoming.

I’m learning now that compassion does not require disappearance. That tending to others should never mean abandoning myself. And maybe this chapter isn’t about blame or regret—but about remembering, and gently returning home to who I was before I learned to fade.