When I was in college, I had a close friend who was everything I admired but struggled to be: kind, calm, and endlessly patient. She carried a steady grace that I found both comforting and intimidating. One weekend, we decided to hang out at the mall. I rode with her, excited for a chill day, and also low-key eager to impress her. Since she knew I had gotten my student driver’s permit, she offered to let me try parking her car—between two already-parked cars.
Of course, I accepted the offer!
She guided me gently at first, talking me through the process. But no matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t get the car between those two vehicles. My hands were stiff. My mind blanked out. It was frustrating! After several failed attempts, I saw that she didn’t know what else to say. The patience in her tone shifted. Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it lost its ease.
I felt humiliated, not because she made me feel that way, but because I had something to prove, and I failed! I let my shame fester, and in that moment, my defenses went up. I got quiet in a closed-off, cold, passive-aggressive kind of way.
I gave her the silent treatment for the next two hours.
We walked around the mall together, but I barely spoke. She didn’t confront me about what happened. She didn’t ask why I was upset or call me out for icing her out. Looking back, I think she knew what was going on. Maybe she’d been through it before—with me or with someone else.
But that day cemented something in me: I defaulted to silence as a way of dealing with uncomfortable emotions, and over the years, I began to understand how harmful that habit really was.
That parking lot incident was just one of many moments where I used silence as a shield. I wasn’t yelling, I wasn’t being outright cruel so I thought I was being kind. The truth is, silent treatment is emotional punishment. It shuts down the possibility of healing or learning.
Here are three long-term effects I’ve come to recognize in myself:
I Struggled to Process Negative Emotions In that moment, I was ashamed and frustrated, but I didn't know what to do with those feelings. So, I pushed them down, masked them with indifference, and blamed her instead. That’s the danger: when we don't process our emotions, we project them. Silence became my shortcut to avoid dealing with anything I didn’t like in myself.
I Saw Everything From My Side Only Because I didn’t speak, I never gave anyone the chance to disagree with me. Without feedback, I lived in my own echo chamber. I believed I was always right because who was there to tell me otherwise? Silence made it easy to stay stuck in my own version of the story.
I Avoided Difficult but Necessary Conversations After that incident, I knew deep down I was the one who acted out, but I never brought it up again. I buried it under other memories. I’d never learned how to sit in the discomfort of real conversations, especially the kind where I had to admit I was wrong. So I just didn’t talk, but that silence cost me a lot—not just with friends, but with my own growth.
For decades, I carried this toxic trait, believing I was being "calm" or "gentle" because I wasn’t raising my voice. In reality, I was withholding communication, affection, and understanding. Silent treatment became a survival tool that slowly turned into emotional avoidance.
I would like to believe better now.
The shift didn’t happen overnight, but today, I’m more aware. I’m surrounded by good friends and patient listeners who don’t tolerate silence as a punishment. They nudge me to speak, to feel, to unpack the mess I used to ignore. They remind me that processing emotions is not weakness, it’s responsibility.
I’m learning how to name my feelings, to hold space for hard conversations, and to understand other perspectives, not just defend my own.
Do I still go silent sometimes? Yes. But I catch it sooner.
I say, “I need time,” instead of disappearing emotionally. I think that’s progress!
I used to think I was kind because I didn’t yell, but now I know: silence, when used to punish or protect pride, is just another form of emotional distance, and it can be just as loud as anger. As I grow older, I hope the long-term effects of silent treatment loosen their grip on me. I hope I keep learning to speak, listen, and face myself fully—without shame, and without silence.
