Silence — Golden or Binding?

Part 4

The first time I learned the weight of silence, I was a child. I had secrets that sat heavy in my chest, secrets I didn’t dare speak because I was convinced that speaking them would shatter the fragile world around me. I believed silence was protection, a way to keep things from getting worse. But silence is a funny thing—it can be a sanctuary, but it can also be a cage. And when you sit in that cage long enough, you forget that the door was never locked to begin with.

For years, I carried the silence of things I could not name. The shadows of unspoken words followed me into adulthood, shaping how I showed up in relationships, in conversations, in the very way I held my body. I learned to smile even when my insides were screaming. I became an expert in deflection, turning the conversation away from myself, keeping the walls high, keeping the truth buried. The mind can make a prison feel like home if you live there long enough.

But something inside me ached to be free. I didn’t recognize it at first—it was just an unease, a restlessness. It wasn’t until I found myself staring into a mirror, exhausted by my own pretense, that I realized what I had been missing. I had spent so long holding my breath that I forgot what it felt like to exhale.

The key was always with me—willingness. Willingness to change, to let the words come, to let the silence break. And when I finally spoke, when I let the truth pour out of me, it was terrifying. But it was also liberating. The secrets I had held onto so tightly lost their power the moment I gave them voice. And in that moment, silence became my sanctuary—not the silence of suppression, but the silence of peace.

I see this transformation in many of the clients I work with. Some come to me weighed down by the silence they were taught to keep—women who were told not to make waves, men who were taught that emotions were weaknesses. They sit before me, their bodies tense, their words measured, their truths buried deep. And then, little by little, the silence begins to crack. A man admits that he is afraid of losing control because control is all he has ever known. A woman whispers that she does not trust love because love has only ever hurt her. A mother confesses that she resents the role she never got to choose. And in that moment, silence is no longer binding. It is no longer a cage. It is the deep breath before the leap.

So I ask you—what is your relationship with silence? Does it hold you, comfort you, or does it suffocate you? Does it protect you, or does it imprison you? If you feel the weight of unspoken words pressing against your ribs, I invite you to let them out. Speak them into a journal, whisper them to a trusted friend, scream them into the wind if you must.

Because silence should be a place of rest, not a place of exile. And the moment you realize you are holding the key, you are already free.