Have You Fully Met Yourself in the Silence?

When Silence Has Claws.

For years prior, I would wonder what it would be like to sit in silence. Not just, “oh, this is rather quiet”, kind of quiet.

No music. No podcasts. No background noise to hold me together.

Pure silence.

Just me, my steering wheel, and everything I thought I’d buried deep enough to never hear again.

At first, I tried to talk to myself out loud — about the weather, what I was making for dinner, the errands I needed to run. Anything to keep the thoughts at bay.

But the silence didn’t care.

It waited.

And the more I filled that space with meaningless conversation, the more the real voices — the ones I keep locked up — started to rise.

“You’re a failure.”

“You’ve done nothing with your life.”

“You’ll be forgotten just like all the other nobodies.”

“Why do you even try?”

They didn’t whisper.

They screamed.

And eventually, I stopped pretending I didn’t hear them.

I stopped trying to talk over them.

I gave them the mic.

And what came out was venom. Acid. Grief. Rage.

Years of things I never said out loud.

Years of thoughts that weren’t allowed in the daylight.

Years of versions of myself clawing at the walls, trying to be heard.

I hated every word I spoke in that silence.

But I kept speaking.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t censoring myself for anyone.

I wasn’t lying about how I was doing.

I wasn’t putting a polite filter on survival.

I gave myself a deadline since I was 12 years old. All because of a gaming mechanic from a game called, “Dragon Age: Origins” (BioWare), where, when you became something called a, “Grey Warden”, you’d have 20 years left to live.

I wish I could explain why I held onto that idea since then — I don’t know why myself, but it’s been with me for that long. My 20 years draws closer.

By 32, if life doesn’t feel like it’s worth it — if I’m still drowning and nothing has shifted — I’d end it.

I wouldn’t leave a mess.

I’ve already made sure everything I own passes legally to my parents.

And then I’d be gone.

Not out of drama.

Not for attention.

Just tiredness.

Quiet, heavy tiredness that no nap can fix.

But the thing is — I’m also afraid of following through.

Afraid of how fast it’s moving.

Afraid of how quickly I’ll get to that deadline.

Afraid I won’t have built anything by then that makes me want to stay.

Maybe I’ve been thinking about this deadline in the wrong way. Maybe I don’t need a literal death, rather a different kind of ending is needed. Even by my deadline, I just need to pivot, to change directions, because I can always change my mind. I contradict myself, I’m rarely consistent in my thoughts unless it’s to put myself down, but I keep pushing through that personal miasma and show up anyways.

So I rage.

I write.

I stretch.

I keep moving.

I’d rather burn myself out at both ends trying to make something than live quietly. Life has much to offer and I’d want to see as much of it as possible.

Not out of hope.

But out of spite.

Because if I’m going to be forced to exist, I’m going to make noise. Even in the silence.

You don’t fully meet yourself until the silence strips everything away.

Until there’s no one else to impress.

No one else to lie to.

No more distractions.

Just you.

And all your demons are sitting in the front seat asking, “Now what?”

You Made It Through

If you’ve ever driven in silence and hated every second of it — If you’ve ever stared into the void of your own thoughts and heard them answer back — I won’t tell you it gets better.

For me, I’ve learned to sit with myself without destroying myself in the moment like before.

But you’re not alone when the silence brings up stuff you’d rather not acknowledge, but it does exist here with you in your own moments.