Often, we keep silent just to avoid conflict. Whether it's managing orders at the family business, keeping up with my university tasks, or participating in my daily activities at church, I’ve realized that avoiding a difficult conversation is like leaving a wound uncleaned—in the end, it only hurts more.
I’m not talking about picking a fight, but about finding that quiet courage to say, "I need to talk about this."
Sometimes, silence isn’t just cowardice; it’s a form of protection. We intuitively know that by speaking up, we cross a threshold from which there is no return.
We build "safe" conversations and dodge the truth just to avoid that inevitable sadness, knowing that after the talk, nothing will ever be the same. There is a sense of rupture that beats within us before we even begin; we feel that by clarifying things, we might be sacrificing the innocence of what the relationship used to be. We want things to stay the same, even when we sense that once the words are out, the change is irreversible.
Then there is something deeper, and often harder to admit: our own pride. We convince ourselves that the situation or the other person isn’t worth the emotional energy of a confrontation.
We tell ourselves it’s "not worth it," or that "they should have realized it on their own," using indifference as a shield. But deep down, we know it’s our ego fearing the moment we let our guard down. That resistance to vulnerability prevents us from taking the first step, preferring a cold, safe distance over the risk of being seen as truly hurt.
Sometimes, I wonder if it’s all a futile effort. Maintaining silence in the face of crucial conversations is essentially an attempt to deceive ourselves.
We waste an incredible amount of energy holding that distance, pretending everything is fine, while knowing that the clash with reality is inevitable. It’s like building a sandcastle against the tide: we know the sea will eventually wash it away, yet we insist on keeping the structure intact. In the end, we aren’t protecting anyone; we’re just postponing the moment we have to face what we already know is coming.
Recently, I had to face one of these conversations—something I considered crucial, where I laid out my expectations and my most sincere longings.
It was difficult because when you open your heart hoping for common ground, but the response is the exact opposite, the impact is undeniable. It’s not just a clash of opinions; it’s realizing that the other person is walking under a different sky, with goals and dreams that simply don't align with yours. It hurts to accept that abyss, to discover that even though we are standing in the same place, we are looking in opposite directions.
Ultimately, I’ve realized it is far better to live with the truth, no matter how painful, than to keep building on false foundations.
Stopping the "daydreaming" about a reality that doesn't exist has allowed me to regain my focus. It’s no longer about avoiding suffering; it’s about stop wasting my energy on something that, deep down, has no future or destination. Accepting reality, as raw as it may be, is the only way to let go of what isn't meant for us and free up space for what truly deserves my effort and my hopes. Truth may strip us bare, yes, but it also frees us from the burden of maintaining a lie.
Writing has been my greatest ally in this. When I feel overwhelmed, I pour everything onto the screen before facing the other person.
It’s my way of organizing the internal chaos so that, when the moment to speak arrives, my words aren't a storm, but a bridge. It is there, in my writing, that I allow the rupture to happen without fear.
In the end, the peace we find in silence is usually just borrowed peace.
I prefer the discomfort of the truth over the falsity of a silence that drowns me. What do you choose?
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