When I Almost Stayed Quiet

And What Happened When I Didn't

There was a time when silence was my safety.

It began in childhood, when I learned that speaking up could make things worse. I became the good girl—the helper, the achiever, the one who held it together while everything around me cracked. I was the eleven-year-old who found her mother gone, who comforted her sobbing father instead of crying herself. I was the woman who hid bruises behind smiles, who made sure no one saw the chaos brewing at home.

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

Silence became my armor. My invisibility cloak. My prison.

Years later, I found myself trapped again—this time in my own home. My ex-husband would sit outside for hours, staking out the house. The police wouldn’t intervene because his name was still on the deed. Before he finally moved out, I’d been advised by HopeWorks of Howard County to pack clothes and important papers and keep them in the trunk of my car—just in case I needed to flee.

At night, I slept with my keys in my hands, rehearsing escape routes, always making sure he couldn’t corner me in a room. My hair fell out in clumps from the stress. My longtime stylist, worried, asked gently if I was undergoing cancer treatments.

I almost stayed quiet then, too. It would have been easier—to keep pretending, to hope things would somehow get better. But deep down, I knew that silence was no longer protection; it was permission for the abuse to continue.

So I broke it. I told the truth. I asked for help.

And everything changed.

The silence cracked open, and in came light: safety plans, kind voices, friends who handed me keys and safe places to sleep. I began to understand that breaking silence doesn’t mean breaking down—it means breaking free.

Since then, I’ve spoken my truth again and again—on stages, in classrooms, in books, and now here, with you. Each time, my voice grows stronger. Each time, another woman hears her own story in mine and realizes she’s not alone.

That’s the magic of voice—it’s contagious. Courage shared multiplies.

So here’s my invitation to you: Where have you been quiet too long? What truth inside you is begging for breath?

The world needs your story. Your voice. Your truth.

Speak it. Write it. Live it.