You have no idea how silence has sounded for me. How it became so deafening. My tongue tasted bitter, felt hollow - weighted - under the pressure of the roof over my lips and over my head. The walls around me spoke for me, reminding me of everything I’ve done and haven’t done. The email I’ve been waiting for arrived in my inbox. I turn to no one - it’s just me here, sharing my victory with the mirror. We don’t talk about the good things as to not shake loose the bad. Give it a reason to remind me of what used to be.

I’ve been told I’m prettier when I’m quiet. That my voice doesn’t match my face. That my idea of sharing is way too stressful, an assault of the senses, a quest for validation. So I’ve sat quietly. Been left on read. Told to wait my turn for communication. The thing about that is… I’ve survived. And I need to tell it to everyone. I need to share that this thing I’ve wanted, been terrified of, read over and over again to ensure my name is the one they called. I need communication that mixes curiosity about my day with flirtatious sparks shot through my screen. Checking in with me as I hold space for you. I need to share about the mundane, the harrowing, the exhausting, the dazzling. To a willing audience. One who whips up the applause and is a needed place to land after my latest dive.

Dr. Maya Angelou fell silent after trauma. I know that sound. It’s the sound of swallowing words because it’s safer. Stomach acid will protect you but not from every word’s memory. Her tale of learning how to speak again shows me how much is possible on the other side of silence.

So I need to talk. I need to share. I need to be heard and received joyfully. I need to speak.

Now.