From Wallflower to Warrior
Breaking the silence, and speaking up for yourself
I used to be the family ghost.
Present but not really there. Listening to everyone else’s opinions while swallowing my own. Because every time I had spoken, it was too direct and controversial. I questioned everything, I wasn’t subtle, layered or diplomatic. I guess I didn’t have much of a filter between my brain and my mouth.
I grew up in a country and time when women were supposed to be demure, quiet, subservient. My family was just following the script they knew and trained me in it. I was given steady messages that what people would think about me was more important than my voice. They thought that my directness would hurt me in a world that expected women to be, well…. acceptable.
But somewhere along the way, their concern became my silence. I started listening rather than speaking, nodding along to conversations I had no interest in. But mostly, I stayed absorbed in my books. Fantasy worlds were magical and felt safer than the real one. I could disappear into stories, and be whoever I wanted to be. Where no one had expectations of me being someone they wanted.
By the time I grew up, silence and invisibility wasn’t just a habit. It was my role.
Professional wallflower. Expert at making myself invisible.
The art of invisibility
Invisibility doesn’t happen all at once. It is a practiced art. It’s a slow erosion. A daily practice of editing yourself down to nothing.
It does have its benefits though. I became a sponge. In my silence, I observed people, their expressions, their body language. I learned to read the room before I spoke. I mastered the art of nodding agreeably even when I had no clue what was being said. Of smiling even when I disagreed.
Most people like to fill a room with their voices. They could talk for hours – about their opinions, their stories, their version of reality. What they can’t do is listen. They don’t want a conversation. They want an audience. I was the perfect audience – silent, absorbing, never challenging their narrative.
What I didn’t realise though was that people mistake your silence for weakness. And when they think you’re weak, or dumb, and they start treating you like you are. I was told how to behave. How to live. Who to be. I got casual comments about my choices, my worth, my life decisions. I stayed silent through it all, not bothering to defend myself or all the boundaries that were being crossed, thinking I was keeping the peace.
It was when I was going through one of the hardest periods of my life, barely holding it together, that the very things I had tolerated all these years started grating on my nerves.
I realised that I had allowed myself to become everyone’s emotional dumping ground.
Their personal advice recipient. Their project to fix. All because I had been quiet.
The script rebellion
Something clicked in my brain. Their script wasn’t my script.
They needed me to be quiet, agreeable, manageable. But I didn’t have to play that role anymore.
I made a conscious decision to fight their script. To force myself out of my comfort zone and actually voice my thoughts and opinions. Not just in my head, but out loud.
It started small. Instead of nodding along, I’d say “I disagree.” Instead of absorbing their commentary, I’d respond. Instead of letting them cross my boundaries, I’d speak up. Not just for myself, but for others too. When I saw someone else being silenced or dismissed, I found my voice for them when I couldn’t find it for myself. Each time I was terrified. Each time I thought they’d hate me for speaking up.
But something interesting started happening. People started coming to me for advice. Not because I was the quiet one who would just listen, but because when I spoke, I had something worth saying.
I discovered something that was shocking to me – people actually appreciated my views. My advice. My perspective. All those years of observing and listening hadn’t been wasted. They’d given me wisdom. I could read situations, understand people’s motivations, see patterns they couldn’t see themselves.
I realized that what my family had labeled as “too direct” was actually clarity. What they called “controversial” was actually honesty. What they saw as “no filter” was actually authenticity.
My voice wasn’t the problem. Their inability to handle it was.
