The Weight of Silence, the Freedom of Truth

There was a time when I would have swallowed my words.

Not because I didn’t know the truth, but because I had been conditioned to believe that speaking it came at a cost. That truth, no matter how clear, should always be measured against the comfort of others. That it was better to be liked than to be real.

And so, I learned to soften the edges of my thoughts. To wrap them in caution, to silence what might disturb the delicate balance of appearances. I watched as people I knew, people I once trusted, built their lives on contradictions—saying one thing, doing another, performing righteousness while acting in ways that betrayed the very values they claimed to uphold. And yet, it was never them who were called into question. It was always those who saw too much, those who dared to name the illusion.

I used to believe that staying silent was safer. That if I held my tongue, I would be accepted. That if I didn’t challenge the stories others told themselves, I would still be welcome.

But here is the truth about silence: it does not protect you. It only suffocates you slowly, making you complicit in the very thing you wish to break free from.

And I am no longer willing to be complicit.

When the Lie is Called Truth

The moment I chose to speak—really speak—I felt something shift. The weight I had carried for years, the burden of tiptoeing around other people’s cognitive dissonance, was gone. It was not anger. It was not vengeance. It was simply the raw, undeniable reality of what I had always known but had been afraid to say.

And in speaking it, I saw the fragility of those who had always been so sure of their own righteousness. The ones who have built their lives around illusion and control cannot bear to have a mirror held up to them.

They do not want to be questioned. They do not want to be reminded. They do not want to see.

Because to see—to really see—would mean acknowledging that the foundation was never solid to begin with.

And so they project. They call others lost to avoid admitting that they themselves have been wandering through a maze of their own making. They uphold the mask, clutching it tighter with every contradiction they refuse to face.

But here is the part that used to keep me silent: they punish those who walk away.

To leave the illusion is to be cast as the villain. The lost one. The one who “changed.” It is not because we have done anything wrong, but because our existence alone is a threat to the carefully curated narrative.

The Mother Wound and the Weight of Approval

For years, I have unraveled the threads of my mother wound—how deeply woven it is into my choices, my self-perception, and the way I have moved through the world. The wound is not just about her; it is about the entire inheritance of silence and sacrifice that has been passed down through generations.

It is the belief that to be loved, you must shrink yourself. That to be accepted, you must not question. That to belong, you must never disturb the peace—even when the peace is a lie.

And so, for so long, I tried. I held my tongue. I smothered my fire. I let the weight of other people’s expectations shape me into something smaller, something more acceptable.

But the mother wound—this ancient, inherited survival mechanism—was never meant to protect me. It was meant to keep me in line.

Because the moment I finally stood up and said, “No, this is not the truth”, I saw it for what it was: a system of control. A system that needed me to stay silent in order to survive.

But I am no longer willing to carry that burden.

Reclaiming the Narrative

The most radical thing I have ever done is stop asking for permission to exist as I am. To name what is false, to call out what is contradictory, to no longer trade truth for approval.

It does not matter if they do not like it. It does not matter if they say I have changed. It does not matter if they call me lost.

What matters is that I am finally free.

What matters is that I no longer betray myself in order to be palatable to those who have built their lives on self-deception.

What matters is that I see the illusion for what it is—and I no longer have to live inside it.

Because if the price of belonging is silence, then I would rather stand alone.

Because if speaking the truth makes me an outcast, then I was never meant to stay.

And because if breaking free means burning down the lies, then let the fire rage on.

Let the ones still clutching their masks tell themselves whatever they need to. Let them rewrite their stories, let them pretend it was never there, let them bury the contradictions deeper.

But I will not bury myself with them.

No More Fait Accompli

For generations, decisions were made in silence and accepted as fate. The ones who came before me had no choice but to accept the fait accompli, to swallow their grief, to live in the shadow of the life they were told to live.

But I refuse.

I refuse to carry the weight of their choices. I refuse to inherit the silence. I refuse to live in the prison of their contradictions.

And so, I will name the illusion. I will step into the truth. I will let the weight fall from my shoulders.

For the first time in my life—I will finally breathe, and I will ignite in my own fire.