For most of my life I was afraid of my own voice. Of my own opinion.
What would people think? Would they misunderstand me? Would they come for me?
I grew up in a house where you didn't stand out. Where you didn't make waves. When someone came after me or tried to pick a fight, I’d go to my father for advice. But he would repeatedly say the same thing. Just ignore it. Don't start discussions. Don't stand out.
And so I went through my teenage years and my adult life exactly like that. Always with the thought to keep my opinion to myself, because nobody would be interested, and because I didn't really have anything to contribute.
I let people be right when they insisted on being right. I never raised my voice. I never defended myself. When I was excluded, I suffered quietly but remained silent. At some point I started to believe it myself.
That I didn't matter.
That my voice didn't matter.
That I had nothing worth saying. And for a long while it worked and kept me safe.
Until one day I became completely disgusted.
Disgusted by the people around me who tried to provoke me, who yearned for my reaction, any reaction.
But mostly I was disgusted with myself.
With what I’d been taught to become.
With my entire situation.
Trapped in a job that didn't fulfil me with no visible way out until I turned 65. At the thought of living like that forever.
Not everyone will understand this, and I don't expect them to. Because not everyone feels this way. Many people find real meaning in their jobs and I am truly happy for them. I know how often I wished I could be one of them.
Normal. Content. Grateful.
I really tried, for a long time.
But my body kept interrupting my head.
I have no energy to sit in an office all day.
My back hurts.My knees hurt. I feel danger around me.
I feel the people I work with don't really like me. They smile, but there is no warmth in their eyes.
I want to go straight to bed when I get home.
And I want nothing to do with the world.
I need time to recover. More than everybody else.
Or am I just lazy? I’m angry and exhausted. I’m afraid of Sundays.
For two years I withdrew and worked on myself. I enjoyed every second of it, even when it meant letting go of everything I’d been quietly carrying.
I started picturing my dream life.
Like a canvas I’d start then remove again, make adjustments.
Forced myself to shut down all the noise and worry I embraced the loneliness and learned to love and cherish it.
I felt, this is the right moment now.
I’m finally in the right place. I’m at peace.
Finally, I’m owning my life.
I don’t need to be on time for this morning train I always hated. I don’t need to waste my life trying to be liked by people I don’t even like.
I can work in my own little corner with the people I actually want to work with: the smartest, kindest people out there.
I choose them. And they choose me. Wholeheartedly.
Just the thought of being locked into a desk assigned by someone else, dependent on an employer again, makes me feel uncomfortable.
The years I spent in silence taught me one important thing.
All of us need something more: a purpose that stays even if we get replaced by a machine.
One hour or two a day, dedicated to finding out who we really are and what we truly enjoy doing.
One thing we’d love to think about every day for the rest of our lives.
This is the first time I’ve dared to be that person.
To have an opinion and stand by it.
To learn how to genuinely don't care what people think.
And that’s completely fine with me.
Because I know now that I’m allowed to say what I think, just like anyone else.
If I believe I have something important to say, then why else am I here?
Why share my thoughts, my experiences, my knowledge, my life, if not because someone out there might need to hear it?
The right people will come and want to hear it. And there’s no need to force it.
What does silence cost?
That question followed me into this issue.
In the specific. In the daily accumulation of things left unsaid.
We talk about AI replacing human thought. Many of us have already outsourced the thinking before we've even had it. And the earlier we admit it, the better.
This issue is about the cost of what happens when efficiency and speed become the main value.
About the danger of putting our lives in someone else's hands.
About what it means to think for yourself in an age that has made it very easy not to.
In my case, silence cost me time. The precious years I could have spent being myself, but didn't, out of fear of not being liked. Not being loved.
