SILENT BATTLES AND THE GRACE TO HEAL

 

There are seasons in life where silence feels safer than words. Where speaking becomes too heavy, and even explaining feels like reopening a wound that’s trying its best to close. I’m in that space now, the space where not talking to people feels like a form of protection. I’ve been sitting with my thoughts lately, and I can admit it: I feel shame. I feel embarrassed. I feel stuck, not doing “anything”.

Part of it came from the condition in my eye, which I had a week ago, a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Walking around with a bloodshot eye caused by a burst vein can make you want to crawl into a hole and stay there. It’s the kind of thing that draws attention, even when you wish it wouldn’t. You catch people staring a second too long, their expressions shifting from concern to discomfort. It’s no wonder I kept my sunglasses on the whole time, even indoors, not because the light hurt my eyes, but because I wanted to protect everyone from how hideous I felt I looked. I didn’t want to see that flicker of horror or pity reflected at me.

The strange thing is, this small condition brought back so many buried memories, ones I thought I had long made peace with.

I remember the accident. My face was barely recognizable. Hideous, that’s the word I recall and imagined, as I saw my reflection in the mirror. I saw the stares, the uncomfortable glances, the way people shifted in their seats when they looked at me. Their reactions cut deeper than the physical pain ever did. The wounds healed, but the scars both seen and unseen lingered because of how people squirmed around me as if my face was something to be avoided, as if scars could somehow be contagious.

That’s when I learned something about people, about behavior, compassion, and the power of silence. I realized that, as much as some love you and give you comfort, they may not always be the ones who take the time to understand your story. Sometimes, it’s strangers on the internet who stumble upon your words and feel them more deeply than those who’ve known you your whole life. Maybe it’s because I can articulate myself better in writing than I can out loud. And maybe an experience lived daily loses its edge for those around you, but for someone reading it fresh, it hits differently. You get a raw reaction that relives the moment and relates to you at a deeper level.

People’s behavior taught me that if you want to hide something, you should put it in a book. Because truly, most won’t read. Even when you write it right in front of them, even when your story is laid bare, they’ll scroll past it, skim it, or avoid it altogether. It’s no wonder that saying exists. But somehow, that realization doesn’t make me indifferent anymore. It’s freeing. It means I can tell my story without fear. I can write without worrying about judgment because most of those who would judge won’t even take the time to read or understand.

Whether people read or not, whether they choose silence or pity, it no longer matters. In fact, I’ve learned that sometimes, silence is better. Pity, though often well-intentioned, can be more painful than the wound itself.

And somewhere in between all that noise and quiet, I learned an important lesson:

Choose peace over poison.

To stop drinking from the cup of other people’s opinions and reactions. To stop replaying their stares, their whispers, their pity in my head. Peace, even when it’s lonely, is still softer than the poison of self-doubt, pity, and shame.

I often think about what Bella said in Twilight, how she’s “the suffer in silence” type. I get it completely. There’s something about quiet suffering that feels… controlled. You choose not to let people in, not because you don’t need help, but because explaining everything while it’s happening feels impossible. You can’t form words for a storm that’s still raging.

And that’s the hard part, for both sides. It’s hard to be there for someone who won’t let you in. You can only ask so many times before you start to feel like you’re prying. I’ve been on both sides of that wall, the one hurting and the one waiting outside it. It’s taught me to be gentler. To understand that sometimes people need space to fall apart, to sit in their own mess, to find their own way back.

I’ve learned to give people grace, to let them go quiet without judgment, to allow them to wallow if they need to, and to trust that maybe one day they’ll come around. Because we’re all fighting something, even if our battles don’t look the same.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is sit with your pain until it teaches you something. Sometimes healing looks like isolation, like quiet mornings where you barely recognize yourself but still choose to show up. Sometimes it’s writing words you’re not sure anyone will read, just so you can breathe again.

The good thing is, my eye is healing now. The red has faded, and I’m slowly seeing more of the white return, something so small, yet it fills me with gratitude. It’s funny how we take little things like that for granted until they remind us just how fragile we are. Illness really puts life into perspective; it reminds you of the gift of health and how easy it is to overlook what once felt ordinary. There’s a quiet joy in recovery, that moment when your body begins to feel like your own again, and I constantly remind myself never to take that for granted.

If you’ve ever felt ashamed, unseen, or broken, I see you. You’re not alone in your silence. You’re not strange for pulling away. Sometimes, stepping back is the only way to move forward.

And when you finally find your way back into the light, you’ll realize that even in your quietest moments, you were growing patiently and beautifully.