Growing up, I was really shy. I was the quiet girl who only let go with people I knew well. It was just who I was—or so I thought.
Now, looking back at that past version of myself, my heart breaks a little. Being shy wasn’t simply temperament; it was having large parts of me frozen in time and hidden away, even from myself.
There was an invisible hand over who I was, whispering that being myself wasn’t good enough. That everyone around me was better, more interesting, and would therefore find me boring.
From an early age, I learned to hide pieces of myself and only reveal what made other people comfortable. What made my parents proud. I discovered that the perfect combination of quiet and polite would earn compliments from grown-ups—not for me, but for how well I reflected on my family.
Being silent became something that was rewarded. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. That reward system was one of the most dangerous lies ingrained in me for years. Because silence as a young adult, as someone in their thirties, is perilous. It creates fertile ground where harm and violence can flourish, unchallenged and unchecked.
Instead of learning to love myself and explore who I was beneath the surface, I became a master curator, constantly questioning whether I was palatable enough for public consumption.
I’ve outgrown that version of myself now. I’ve become curious about who I am and what I can offer this world—through small, gentle gestures and grand, unabashed expressions of joy alike.
I’m ready to say goodbye to that younger self, finally. Not with hatred or shame, but with gratitude for keeping me safe when I believed I needed protecting. Who I’m becoming now matters more than the ghost of who I used to be.
The silence that once felt like armour now feels like a prison I’ve finally learned to unlock from the inside.
