People admired how calm I was.
How “chill,” how collected.
How nothing seemed to shake me.
They called it grace.
I called it endurance.
Because stillness, for me, was never about serenity.
It was about survival.
The Quiet I Was Trained to Keep
From a young age, I learned that loudness had consequences.
Voices raised in protest were voices punished.
Tears invited shame.
Needs were called dramatic.
Boundaries were labeled selfish.
So I adapted.
I swallowed my anger.
I silenced my fear.
I numbed desire.
I buried disappointment under polite smiles.
Stillness became the safest shape I could take.
The less I expressed, the less I risked.
The less I reacted, the more I was praised.
And over time, I became excellent at appearing fine—
even when I was breaking inside.
Stillness as Camouflage
When your nervous system is trained to expect rupture,
you don’t seek peace.
You simulate it.
You learn to freeze.
Not because you’re actually calm,
but because moving feels dangerous.
Because speaking feels explosive.
Because feeling is too overwhelming.
You hold your breath instead of taking up space.
You stay quiet in rooms that crush you.
You nod along to things that gut you.
You make your body smaller,
until you can’t tell if you’re being present or disappearing.
It looks like composure.
It’s actually self-abandonment.
The Problem With Being “Low Maintenance”
People like you better when you’re easy.
When you don’t complain.
When you don’t ask for too much.
When you “go with the flow”
(even if the flow is pulling you under).
But what they’re praising isn’t strength—
it’s suppression.
They’re not seeing the cost.
The clenched jaw at night.
The chronic fatigue.
The disconnection from your own body.
The resentment quietly building like steam behind glass.
You’ve mistaken not reacting for emotional maturity.
But sometimes, stillness is just another word for stuck.
Frozen Is Not Free
There’s a difference between peace and paralysis.
Peace is chosen.
Paralysis is learned.
Peace is spacious.
Paralysis is silent.
Peace comes from being rooted in yourself.
Paralysis comes from disconnecting so deeply,
you don’t even know what you feel anymore.
And yet, in a world that punishes vulnerability,
paralysis is often the more “rewarded” state.
You become the friend who always listens,
but never shares.
The partner who never complains,
but never feels known.
The colleague who takes on more than they should,
and says, “No worries,”
when inside, everything hurts.
Learning to Disturb the Silence
Recovery begins with noise.
A shaky “no.”
An unfiltered truth.
A boundary that feels like betrayal.
It begins when you allow your stillness to crack open—
not with rage or fire,
but with honesty.
Because your silence may have kept you safe,
but it also kept you hidden.
And now, you’re ready to come out of hiding.
You’re ready to feel again—
not just the pleasant, but the painful.
You’re ready to move again—
not in panic, but with purpose.
You’re ready to speak again—
not to be liked,
but to be known.
From Stillness to Self-Return
This is what healing sounds like:
-
I don’t feel okay today.
-
I don’t want that.
-
I need help.
-
That hurt me.
-
I don’t agree.
-
I’m allowed to change my mind.
-
I’m allowed to take up space.
Each sentence, a small revolution.
Each truth, a homecoming.
You begin to realize that peace isn’t the absence of feeling.
It’s the presence of wholeness.
Not composure at all costs,
but coherence within yourself.
Not politeness as protection,
but permission to be real.
Stillness Can Be a Choice, Not a Compromise
This doesn’t mean you have to be loud now.
It doesn’t mean you have to yell, cry, or erupt.
Unless you want to.
It just means your stillness is no longer a cage.
It’s no longer a performance.
It’s no longer the thing you do
to earn safety at the cost of your soul.
Now, stillness becomes sacred.
A quiet that’s rooted, not repressed.
A calm that’s chosen, not demanded.
A silence that holds you,
not one that hides you.
You Were Never Meant to Disappear
You don’t have to be palatable.
You don’t have to be polite.
You don’t have to be perfect.
You get to exist fully—
angry, soft, chaotic, clear, joyful, grieving.
You get to move.
To speak.
To disrupt.
You get to be a living body—
not a still sculpture.
And if your voice shakes,
let it shake.
If your truth is messy,
let it be messy.
Because your life isn’t meant to be tidy.
It’s meant to be yours.
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