Silence Is How I Survive

There are seasons where I just go quiet.

Not because I’m healed.

Not because I’m fine.

But because I’m surviving in the only way I know how.

I’ve always had this thing about silence.

To most people, it looks like isolation or distance.

To me, it’s safety.

It’s peace when my world feels like it’s crashing in from every direction.

It’s the only way I can hear myself think when everything gets too loud.

I don’t disappear because I don’t care.

I disappear because I care too much, and it all becomes too heavy.

Because when life gets overwhelming, when stress piles up, when emotions hit their limit, my instinct isn’t to talk about it or ask for help.

My instinct is to retreat.

To shut everything down.

To protect what little energy I have left.

And sometimes that means going completely quiet.

Not just with the outside world, but with myself too.

No journaling. No venting. No explanations.

Just stillness.

Just space.

It’s not that I don’t have people who care.

It’s not that I don’t trust anyone.

It’s that I’ve lived through enough situations where my words were used against me, or where opening up left me feeling worse.

So now, I pause before I speak.

I hold it all in until I can make sense of it.

And even then, sometimes I still keep it to myself.

Because some pain isn’t meant to be spoken.

Some things lose their meaning when you try to explain them out loud.

And some days, trying to find the words is more exhausting than carrying the weight in silence.

I know people don’t always understand that.

And I also know that I don’t owe anyone an explanation.

But I still feel the guilt creep in.

The pressure to respond. The worry that I’m coming off as cold or distant or selfish.

I know I could at least send a quick, “I’m okay.”

But when I’m in that shut-down space, even those two words feel impossible.

There’s a difference between silence and not caring.

There’s a difference between needing space and pushing people away.

I know my patterns, and I know they’re not always healthy.

But they’re protective.

They’ve kept me alive through things that nearly destroyed me.

This is just how I’ve learned to cope.

And despite the guilt, despite the inner dialogue that tells me I’m being a bad friend or that I should be showing up better—I always find my way back.

Maybe not quickly.

Maybe not with a dramatic comeback.

But I come back.

Because I don’t stay down.

I cry. I hide. I break.

But I always rebuild.

That’s the part people don’t always see.

They don’t see the quiet resilience.

They don’t see me comforting myself when no one’s around.

They don’t see the nights I sit in the dark, reminding myself to just keep breathing.

They don’t see the strength it takes to keep going without reaching for anyone.

And yet, I’m still here.

I’m starting to learn how to appreciate the ones who do understand my silence.

The ones who don’t take it personally.

The ones who don’t flood my phone with guilt trips or question why I’ve pulled back.

The ones who let me come back when I’m ready.

The ones who don’t need an explanation to show compassion.

Those people are rare, and they matter more than they’ll ever know.

Because silence isn’t me giving up.

It isn’t me forgetting about the people who care.

It’s me fighting to hold it all together.

It’s me giving myself space to feel it all without falling apart in front of everyone.

It’s me surviving, quietly.

This is the part of healing that no one really talks about.

The part where you carry things alone, not because you want to, but because it’s the only way you’ve ever known how.

The part where you don’t post about it, don’t explain it, don’t try to make it pretty.

You just keep showing up for yourself the best you can.

Some days, that looks like speaking your truth.

Other days, it looks like silence.

Both are valid.

Both are part of the process.

Both are survival.

And if you’re someone who disappears when life gets too loud, I just want you to know that you’re not alone.

Your silence doesn’t make you weak.

Your solitude doesn’t make you broken.

You’re not failing just because you need time away.

You’re still healing.

Still growing.

Still fighting to make it through in your own way.

And that’s more than enough.

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With love, always

Lindsay-Michele

Self-Love & Inner Peace Coach

www.lindsay-michele.com

@downtherabbithole.lm