on being quiet and boring

loving and hiding in silence

There’s a silence that lets you breathe. You step into it to step back. It lets you linger on the last words you heard and listen. The words almost echo. You hear your thoughts until sound returns. I’ve always loved that an absence of sound is a rest in music.

Stillness feels like peace amid waves.

But I have to be careful with silence. I got too comfortable with it too soon. By the time I learned to make memories, I had already learned I could get away with not saying much.

My parents told me not to be afraid of talking to people, but I wasn’t afraid. Teachers tried to convince me to raise my hand and speak up in class, but I only did if there was some penalty to avoid. I just preferred not to talk unless I truly wanted to. I wasn’t shy. I was quiet.

My love for silence didn’t keep me from making friends. People love people who listen more than they talk, especially if they laugh and smile easily. I found people liked to confide in me, and I was always happy to be there for them. I got good at the role of cheerful emotional support friend, but I was neglecting my own voice.

There’s a silence that lets you breathe, and there’s a silence that feels like a vacuum. Spend too long without using your voice, and you’ll feel time warp. You can hide in silence, but it won’t protect you from what you’re afraid of.

As I got older, I got tired of shrinking away in silence, but it seemed I found myself at a loss for words more than the people around me. I was in my early twenties, going to little events in groups of people who only loosely knew each other. How did everyone know what to say? How were people so funny? Every time I defaulted back into my quiet teenage personality, I felt I regressed.

“Oh yeah, she’s boring.”

“Tell her she doesn’t have to come.”

Some girls I was with at a birthday party didn’t realize I could hear them. I left before they could tell me anything about their plans for the next location of the night. I had only met them once before, so I didn’t mind never seeing them again. Their comments stuck with me though.

I could make peace with seeming bland, or I could risk being truly heard. Seeming boring felt like the worse option.

Now I see it didn’t matter. Maybe it’s the natural confidence that comes with age, but seeming any type of way doesn’t feel important anymore. I’m still generally quiet, but words come more reliably now. I still love to rest in silence, but I’ve learned to love breaking it too.