Growing Louder

I didn’t grow up feeling like I could say exactly how I felt when I felt it.

Not because no one cared — but because I learned early on that it was easier to keep things to myself. Easier to smooth things over. Easier to be “fine.” I learned how to read a room before I learned how to read my own emotions. I learned how to adapt, not how to express. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that my feelings were things to manage quietly instead of things that deserved space.

So I did what a lot of people do: I swallowed it.

I stayed quiet when something bothered me. I laughed things off. I told myself, it’s not that deep, don’t make it awkward, just let it go. And for a long time, that worked — or at least I thought it did. Because being easygoing is praised. Being understanding is rewarded. Being emotional, direct, or confrontational? Not so much.

The problem is, those feelings don’t disappear just because you don’t say them out loud.

They sit. They replay. They come back at 2 a.m. They show up as anxiety, resentment, or that familiar pit in your stomach when you think, Why didn’t I say something?

Now I’m an adult. I care deeply about my relationships. I value honesty. I’m learning what boundaries actually mean — not the Instagram-quote version, but the uncomfortable, real-life version where you have to speak up even when your voice shakes.

And that’s where things get complicated.

Because when you grow up learning to hide your emotions, adulthood feels like this constant internal tug-of-war. Part of you wants to protect the peace. Another part of you wants to protect yourself. And when you don’t address something right away, your brain won’t let it go.

I’ll replay conversations over and over. I’ll think about what someone said, how it landed, how it made me feel — and then I’ll spiral into wishing I had handled it differently. I’ll rewrite the moment in my head a hundred times, convincing myself that if I just said the right thing, I’d finally feel at peace.

But here’s what I’m slowly learning: that spiral isn’t weakness. It’s delayed self-protection.

When something feels off, my body reacts before my words catch up. I freeze, process later, and then my brain goes into overdrive trying to fix something that already happened. Not because I’m dramatic — but because I’m learning, in real time, how to advocate for myself.

What makes it harder is the guilt that comes with speaking up later. There’s this fear that addressing something after the fact makes you look dramatic, sensitive, or like you’re creating problems out of nothing. And I’ve realized that being around the wrong people can quietly reinforce that fear — convincing you that your feelings are “too much.” They aren’t. But not everyone deserves access to them, especially if you’ve been “the easy one” for most of your life.

But the truth is, being quiet didn’t mean I was okay. It just meant I didn’t feel safe enough to respond yet. That’s something I wish more people talked about.

We romanticize being calm, collected, unbothered — but we don’t talk enough about how many people learned those traits as survival tools. We don’t talk about how unlearning them feels messy and uncomfortable. Or how setting boundaries as an adult can feel like betraying the version of yourself that learned to stay quiet to keep the peace.

Lately, I’ve been trying to give myself permission to respond in my own time.

Sometimes that means speaking up in the moment — even if it’s imperfect. Even if all I can say is, “That didn’t sit right with me,” or “I need a second to process that.” Other times, it means circling back later and saying, “I didn’t have the words at the time, but I’ve been thinking about this.”And that has been one of the hardest lessons: realizing that delayed communication is still valid communication.

You don’t lose your right to be honest just because you didn’t react immediately. Processing isn’t a flaw — it’s part of how some of us function. Especially those of us who spent years prioritizing emotional safety over emotional expression.

I’m also learning that boundaries don’t always feel empowering at first. Sometimes they feel like guilt. Sometimes they feel like fear. Sometimes they feel like, Am I asking for too much?

But every time I choose to be honest instead of silent, something shifts. The rumination gets quieter. The resentment fades faster. I feel more grounded in myself and less dependent on replaying the past.

That doesn’t mean I’ve mastered it. I still dwell. I still overthink. I still catch myself wishing I could redo moments. But now, instead of judging myself for it, I try to see it for what it is: a sign that I care about my relationships and myself.

And maybe that’s the balance I’m working toward. Not being reactive. Not being silent. But being intentional. Learning that my feelings don’t have an expiration date. Learning that speaking up doesn’t make me difficult — it makes me honest. Learning that protecting my peace doesn’t have to come at the cost of betraying myself.

If you grew up feeling like you had to hide your emotions, adulthood can feel like relearning how to speak your own language. It’s uncomfortable. It’s awkward. It takes practice. But it’s worth it.

Because you deserve relationships where you don’t have to rehearse your truth alone in your head — where you’re allowed to say it out loud, in your own time, and be met with understanding. And I’m still learning how to do that. One conversation at a time.

I’m looking forward to growing — for myself — this year and in the years to come. To choosing honesty over comfort. To trusting that my feelings don’t need to be justified to be valid. To putting myself first, even when it feels unfamiliar or uncomfortable.

Because I read something once that stuck with me: Keeping quiet kept the peace — until I realized… whose peace was it keeping?

And I think that’s the question I’ll keep coming back to.Not in a bitter way. Not in a blame-filled way. But in a way that reminds me that my voice matters too. That I don’t have to shrink myself to be loved. That growth doesn’t always look loud — sometimes it just looks like finally speaking when you’re ready.

And I’m ready to keep learning how.

Love always, M