The Silence I Learned

Crying. Whining. Throwing tantrums. All the loud, messy things when we feel too much. When I was younger, the only child even, I would cry and throw tantrums when I wanted. But after a certain point, I held back my tears, especially in front of my parents. 

I come off as an emotionless person. Most of my friends have never seen me cry. My parents haven’t heard me talk about how I feel in so many years I’ve lost count. Sometimes they joke around about how my MBTI must be something with a T because of how “rational” and “emotionless” I am. But, being emotionless is a learned skill. 

I’ve always been envious of people who could always tell people how they felt about something, even for small things like when a friend could openly have a crush on a boy or cry about feeling left out. It's not that I’m envious that they can feel, I’m envious that they feel safe enough to express it. They gave the permission to do so—permission I don’t give myself. 

At night, when the lights in the house are off and the sound of chattering in the living room from my family fades, I close my door. The lock clicks quietly—barely making a sound, but it feels like sealing something in. I sit on the floor, back against my bedframe, knees pulled in like they’re holding me together. The room is dark, just a bit of light from a small desk light, no music, no phone screen, just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the weight of overwhelming feelings. Maybe it was because of a fight with my parents, or something that happened at school, whatever it is, it's dealt with the same way. 

My eyes sting before the tears come. I blink repeatedly, hoping maybe they’ll stop. They don’t. I let them fall slowly, silently. I’m trying not to wake anyone—not just in the house, but in the world. 

There’s no sobbing. No gasping. Just a quiet kind of collapse. 

I stare blankly at the white wall in front of me. I squeeze the sleeves of my hoodie. Sometimes I press my fist against my mouth—not to muffle anything, just to feel something there. 

By morning, the evidence is gone. The puffiness fades by the time I’m done brushing my teeth and washing my face. I pack my bag and leave for school. I smile when my friend makes a joke in the morning at school. In class, I do my work like always—like nothing happened. 

No one ever asks if I’m okay. I’ve made sure of that. 

Just up until a couple of years ago, my younger brother would cry everyday. He cried when my parents took away his iPad, when he didn’t want to eat  his food, or when he wanted to stay up a little later at night to play with his legos. 

The tears came easily for him—loud, messy, unfiltered. And yet despite the annoyance from his tantrums, someone always responded. My mom would kneel down, eye level, to make negotiations with him about screen time or bedtime, whatever it was. My dad would carry him to his bed even when he kicked and wailed, refusing to go to bed. There was frustration, sure, but there was also comfort. His sadness always had a loving audience with no judgement that trailed behind. His feelings always earned a reaction. 

I used to sit across the living room, watching as he laid on the floor crying and whining. A part of me rolled my eyes at the tiny things he was so unhappy about. Another part of me wished I could go back to being small and young enough to cry over things like that. Or maybe just becoming someone who could even with age. 

My brother doesn’t cry and wail on the floor like he used to when he was upset. But still, he talks about what he likes and doesn’t like at the dinner table. He asks for what he wants and refuses what he doesn’t. He tells people about what he feels. Definitely in a different way than when he was younger, but it still exists. I’m envious of the person that he is. A person who can express himself and talk about himself comfortably. 

In a few months, I’ll be off to college, in a new city, surrounded by new people, in a place no one knows who I’ve been. I won’t be “the calm one” or the “emotionless one” by default. I’ll have a chance to choose how I show up. That terrifies me. I’ve spent so long hiding how I feel that I don’t know what it looks like to let someone see me break, nearing the end of senior year, I’m starting to realize that I don’t want to carry all of this with me. Not into the next version of myself. I write this as a reflection of who I’ve lived as for the past decade and who I wish to become in the coming years. I want to unlearn silence. To leave the door open and let someone walk in before I’ve cleaned the mess up. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach a perfect level of refusing silence, but maybe that’s what growing up really is—finally giving yourself permission to be held.