What My Silence Would Say If It Could Speak: When Silence Learns to Speak #WriteAPageADay @Blogchatter

If my silence could speak,
it would not begin with a sentence.
It would begin with a pause—
the kind the forest takes
before dawn remembers its name,
the kind the sea takes
before deciding whether to be gentle or wild.

My silence would say
I am not empty.
I am listening.

It would say
I learned early
that some truths bruise when spoken aloud,
that words can arrive too sharp,
like sudden light in a cave
where the eyes are still adjusting.
So I learned to cup my knowing
inside my chest,
holding it the way you hold a flame
on a windy hill—
not hiding it,
just protecting it.

If my silence could speak,
it would tell you
how often I stood at the edge of myself,
watching emotions pass
like migrating birds,
never sure which ones would return,
never sure which season I was in.
It would confess
that I mistook restraint for strength
and quiet for safety,
that I believed stillness meant control.

But silence knows better than that.
Silence remembers everything.

It remembers the night sky
the first time I realized
I was small in a way that did not humiliate me.
The stars did not mock my size;
they welcomed it.
They said,
you do not have to be vast to belong to the universe.
You only have to be here.

My silence would say
I have carried entire conversations
that never found mouths,
apologies that aged inside me
until they turned into wisdom,
questions that did not want answers
but space.

It would say
there were days I did not speak
because language felt like a costume
that no longer fit.
Every word pinched.
Every sentence lied by omission.
So I stood barefoot
in the grammar of breath,
inhaling meaning,
exhaling presence.

If my silence could speak,
it would admit
that I feared being misunderstood
more than being alone.
That I often chose the safer wound.
That I believed being legible
required self-erasure,
as if clarity demanded
I sand myself down
until I became acceptable.

Silence watched all this
without interrupting.
It is patient that way.
It knows timing is a kind of truth.

My silence would say
I have loved deeply
without announcing it,
the way roots love soil—
by holding,
by nourishing,
by staying unseen.
It would say
some of my devotion
was so quiet
even I forgot to name it love
until it was gone.

It would say
grief does not always scream.
Sometimes it rearranges the furniture
inside you
and waits.
Sometimes it sits by the window
counting clouds
until sorrow learns how to breathe.

If my silence could speak,
it would tell you
I have forgiven people
without telling them,
not because they deserved absolution
but because I deserved rest.
It would say
closure is not a door others open for you;
it is a room you learn to leave
without slamming.

Silence would say
I am still learning the difference
between peace and numbness.
Between surrender and disappearance.
Between listening and self-neglect.

It would say
I have mistaken the sky for an answer
when it was only an invitation.

There were moments
when my silence became heavy,
a stone carried too long,
and I confused endurance with virtue.
In those moments,
my silence would whisper—
even mountains crack eventually,
even oceans move.

If my silence could speak,
it would say
I am not withholding;
I am gestating.
I am not absent;
I am integrating.
I am learning how to let sound
rise from depth
instead of fear.

It would say
there is a difference
between not speaking
and being unheard.
One is a choice.
The other is a wound.

My silence would say
I have watched myself change
the way the moon changes—
no announcements,
no explanations,
just a slow, honest shift of light.
Some people noticed.
Some didn’t.
The moon does not argue with either.

If my silence could speak,
it would turn its gaze outward
and say
you are not alone in your quiet.
Every person carries a private universe
of unsaid things—
entire galaxies of almosts,
constellations of restraint,
dark matter made of love
that never found a verb.

Silence would say
the cosmos itself is mostly quiet,
and yet look how much it holds.
Stars are born in darkness.
Planets form without applause.
Expansion does not ask permission.

It would say
maybe you don’t need to explain yourself
to be real.
Maybe being felt
is not the same as being loud.
Maybe your inner weather
does not owe anyone a forecast.

If my silence could speak,
it would end the way it began—
with space.
Not an ending,
but an opening.

It would say
I am learning when to speak
and when to let silence finish the sentence.
I am learning that voice
is not volume,
that truth does not rush,
that meaning ripens
when given time.

And finally,
my silence would say this—
I am not here to disappear you.
I am here to return you
to yourself,
slowly,
honestly,
until even your quiet
feels like home.