Some of the most important things I’ve ever felt never made it out of my mouth. Love. Regret. Fury. Longing. I’ve held them behind my teeth like secrets. I’ve written texts I never sent. Emails that sat in drafts for weeks. Practised conversations in the car or in the shower. Sometimes with people I no longer speak to. Sometimes with people who no longer exist.
Silence can be a refuge. The quiet between people who know each other well. Who don’t need to narrate every thought. The kind of silence that feels earned. Like slipping into a warm bath. You don’t need to explain. You just are.
But silence can also be heavy. It sits on your chest. It curls around things you wish you’d said but didn’t. The apology you never gave. The truth you softened until it disappeared. The questions you swallowed because asking might have changed everything. Or ended something. Or made you look foolish. Or vulnerable. Or both.
There are people I think about more than I admit. People I never properly closed a door with. The friendships that fizzled without ceremony. The breakups that limped away. The family tension we never put language to. Just a look. Just a shift in tone. And then nothing. That kind of silence doesn’t scream. It whispers. But it lingers.
When I was younger, I thought I was brave for holding my tongue. I confused restraint with maturity. I thought silence meant strength. That if I didn’t say it, I couldn’t regret it. And maybe sometimes that’s true. But not always.
I’ve regretted words I didn’t say far more than the ones I did. I’ve wished I’d told a friend she was enough, just as she was, before she stopped believing it. I’ve wished I’d said I was sorry first. I’ve wished I’d told someone I loved them, not in passing, but like I meant it. Like it mattered. Because it did.
And yet, I’ve also been grateful for silence. It has saved me from saying things in anger. From wounding people I love. From reacting too fast. Silence has protected me. But it has also protected others from knowing me fully. From seeing the softer parts I kept hidden. The parts that felt too exposed. Too tender to risk.
There is a kind of grief that comes with words unspoken. They live in your chest like a second heartbeat. You carry them with you. Into new relationships. Into new rooms. They echo when you’re alone. Not loudly. But enough.
I’ve started listening to the quiet more. Asking what it wants to tell me. Sometimes it’s wisdom. Sometimes it’s fear dressed up as wisdom. Sometimes it’s just the ache of knowing you missed your moment.
There’s an art to knowing which silences to protect and which to break. It’s not always clear. Sometimes the only way to know is to say the thing. To risk the answer. To take the leap.
These days, I try to ask myself: if I never get another chance, will I wish I’d said something? If the answer is yes, I try to say it. Not perfectly. Not dramatically. Just honestly. A quiet truth, placed gently in the world.
I’ve learned that saying something is not about control. It’s not about getting the reaction you hope for. It’s about release. About knowing you showed up. About offering what was real for you, even if it was only for a moment.
Because silence will speak either way. The question is, will it say what you meant?
And if it won’t, maybe—just maybe—it’s time to open your mouth and let it out. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s late. Even if it’s only for you.