I didn't stop having things to say. I just stopped saying them.
When I was thirteen, my parents and I took a trip to the west coast. Along the way, we stopped to visit my dad's cousin and his wife, Elaine.
They had lived close to us when I was little, but moved away when I was about seven. I don't remember a lot about that visit, but I remember sitting around the dinner table when Elaine looked at me and said something I have never forgotten.
“What happened to you? You used to talk all the time.”
I don't remember what I said. Knowing myself at thirteen, probably not much.
But I've thought about her question many times over the years.
What did happen to me?
I was an introvert, although I don't believe being an introvert necessarily means being quiet. I needed time alone and still do. But somewhere between being the little girl Elaine remembered and the teenager sitting silently at her dinner table, something had changed.
There probably wasn't one reason.
My sisters were five and seven years older than me, and growing up, they could be pretty hard on their little sister. Years later, before Barbara died, she apologized for how terrible they had sometimes been to me. Was it worse than ordinary sibling behaviour? I don't know. I have nothing to compare it to. I only know how it felt to be the youngest one.
In Grade 3, my closest friend moved away. I took it hard. I missed her terribly.
Even earlier, in Grade 1, I remember being sent to read for the principal. I was terrified. Somewhere in that experience, I was labelled a slow reader.
That label stuck. Even today, if the subject of reading comes up, I automatically say, “I'm a slow reader.”
It's strange how something said about us when we're six years old can become something we say about ourselves for the rest of our lives.
By the time I started dating, I was painfully shy. I remember going out for drinks with one young man and barely speaking the entire time. I wanted to talk. I just didn't know how.
Years later, I reconnected with a boyfriend from that time. He remembered me differently than I expected.
“You didn't speak a lot,” he told me, “but when you did speak, I knew I should listen because it was something important.”
I have always remembered that too.
At home, when I got in trouble with my parents, I often couldn't say what I wanted to say. Instead, I cried.
The tears would come before the words did.
I remember my dad becoming frustrated with me once and saying, “Stop that old crying routine.”
I'm pretty sure I didn't stop.
But it wasn't a routine. I simply couldn't get the words out.
That pattern followed me into adulthood.
When I worked as a computer programmer, it was a largely male-dominated profession. I didn't have the confidence to speak up. I didn't feel as though I could “talk the talk,” so much of the time I stayed quiet.
And then there was my marriage.
I've written before about what it felt like not to be heard. Discussions had a way of turning around until somehow they weren't about what I was trying to say anymore.
Eventually, I stopped trying.
For much of those twenty-three years, I kept things inside.
It wasn't because I had nothing to say.
I had simply learned that sometimes it felt easier not to say it.
Things began to change when I started my own business.
Suddenly, being quiet wasn't an option.
I was in charge. If the business was going to succeed, I had to go out and find customers. I had to talk to people, make decisions, ask for things, explain what I could offer and convince people to take a chance on me.
At first, it was incredibly difficult.
Then it became a little easier.
Some of it remained uncomfortable for years, but I did it anyway.
And somewhere in all that doing, my confidence began to grow.
Later, when I began what I think of as my journey toward happiness, something shifted again. I started questioning old beliefs and thinking more deeply about what I wanted from my own life.
Little by little, I became more willing to say what I thought.
Age helped too.
There is something about having lived through enough of life that gives you the confidence to say, This is what I think. This is what I know. This is what I've learned.
That doesn't mean I always speak up for myself.
Not long ago, my son and I went shopping for runners. He paid for them, and when we left the store, I could tell something was bothering him.
He thought they had overcharged him by about thirty dollars.
I told him I'd go back inside, check the price and, if they'd made a mistake, ask them to refund the difference.
He didn't want me to.
He didn't want to create a scene.
I recognized that feeling immediately.
How many times in my own life had I decided it was easier to let something go than risk making someone uncomfortable?
I wondered whether he had learned a little of that from me.
Maybe finding your voice doesn't mean you suddenly become someone who always speaks up.
I certainly haven't.
There are still times when I let something go. There are still conversations I would rather avoid. And I still don't have much interest in superficial chatter just for the sake of filling silence.
What I want now are the conversations that matter.
I want to talk about life. About the things we've learned and the things we're still trying to understand. About happiness and grief and love and mistakes and starting over.
Maybe that's part of why I created A Few Good Friends.
I don't have a large social circle. I don't need one.
What I've always wanted are meaningful conversations.
And now, at this point in my life, I've found another way to have them.
I write.
I tell my stories.
I put into words some of the things I once would have kept inside and send them out into the world in the hope that someone else might recognize a little of herself in them.
I still don't know exactly what happened to that little girl who used to talk all the time.
Maybe I never will.
I'm not sure it matters anymore.
I've found my voice now.
A thought to take with you
Have there been times when you've kept something to yourself because it felt easier than speaking up?
What might you be ready to say now that you once would have kept inside?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.