Y'all Come Sit a Spell

What’s one thing you wish you had started doing earlier in life?

I was never quiet.

People who know me are probably staring at that sentence and wondering if I have confused myself with someone else.

I can tell a story across a crowded room. I laugh loudly. I have opinions, and I am not generally shy about sharing them. I talk to strangers, animals, plants, and glass creatures in antique stores. I once spotted a glass pig from two booths away and assured her I was coming to get her.

Volume has never been my problem.

Except when it mattered.

I knew how to be loud when I was being funny. I could speak with confidence when I was defending someone else. I could advocate for the people I loved, solve their problems, anticipate what they needed, and make sure their voices were heard.

But when the subject was me, my volume dropped.

I did not always say, “That hurt me.”

I said, “It’s fine.”

I did not always say, “I need help.”

I said, “I’ve got it.”

I did not always say, “This isn’t working for me.”

I adjusted myself until it worked for everyone else.

There is a difference between being outspoken and speaking up for yourself. It took me far too long to understand that.

You can be the loudest person at the table and still never ask for what you need. You can fill a room with laughter while quietly making yourself smaller. You can have strong opinions about everything in the world except whether you deserve better from it.

I thought being easygoing was a virtue. I thought being strong meant carrying the weight without complaining. I thought keeping the peace was more important than saying the thing that might disturb it.

The trouble with constantly keeping the peace is that the peace usually belongs to everyone except you.

So I swallowed words.

I swallowed disappointments because I did not want to seem ungrateful. I swallowed anger because I did not want to be difficult. I swallowed needs because other people had bigger ones. I softened my no until it sounded like maybe. I dressed my hurt in jokes so nobody would feel uncomfortable looking at it.

Then I wondered why people did not understand.

The truth is, I had trained them not to.

I had taught people that I would manage. I would adapt. I would forgive before anyone apologized. I would find a way around whatever had been placed in front of me.

And I usually did.

That does not mean I should have had to.

If I could go back, I would not tell my younger self to become louder. She was already plenty loud. I would tell her to use that voice in the places that frightened her.

Say what you need.

Say what you want.

Say when something hurts.

Say when the joke is not funny.

Say no without attaching a five-paragraph explanation and three alternate solutions.

Speak while your voice is still steady instead of waiting until silence has turned into resentment.

Most of all, stop believing that keeping everyone comfortable is more important than telling the truth about your own life.

I am learning to turn up my volume now.

Not to speak over anyone. Not to dominate every conversation. Not to make myself the most important person in every room.

I am turning it up so I do not disappear from my own story.

I am learning that “I want” is a complete beginning. “I need” is not an accusation. “That hurt” is not an attack. “No” is not cruelty.

My voice does not become less kind when I use it for myself.

I wish I had understood that earlier.

I wish I had known that being seen is not the same as demanding attention. Being heard is not the same as silencing someone else. Taking up my share of the room does not steal space from anyone.

I cannot go back and hand that knowledge to the woman I was.

But I can refuse to lower my voice for the woman I am becoming.

I was never quiet.

I was just quiet where it mattered.

Not anymore.