I was shaped in silence—
not the peaceful kind,
but the kind that grows teeth,
that chews at your ribs
when no one’s looking.
Left out before I ever knew why,
I learned early
how to read a room and leave it
without anyone noticing.
Laughter happened without me,
and I told myself
it was easier that way—
less chance to mess it up,
less chance to be reminded
I didn’t belong.
I started carrying other people’s pain
before I knew how to name my own.
And somewhere along the way,
I decided mine didn’t matter
if it might make theirs worse.
So I held it in—
and it held me back.
Now I speak in short answers,
show up in ways I hope they notice,
but inside I’m screaming
in a language I still don’t understand.
Most people don’t ask.
And if they did,
I’m not sure I’d know what to say.
Not because I don’t feel—
but because feeling
still scares the hell out of me.
I worry my sons will inherit this weight—
not through my words,
but through what I never learned to show.
That they’ll grow up
thinking presence means being quiet,
and love means holding your breath.
Some days,
I look at the life I’ve built
and wonder if I deserve it.
Other days,
I’m afraid I’ll lose it
because I don’t know how to hold it right.
There are no clean endings here.
No sudden light breaking through the clouds.
Just a man
trying not to vanish
in the same silence
he was raised in.
I want to be soft,
but softness was never safe.
I want to be seen,
but I still flinch
when someone looks too close.
And even when I’m loved,
I brace for the day
they finally see what I’ve been hiding—
and leave.
I don’t know how to unlearn this.
Don’t know how to tell my wife
she saved me
without sounding like
she’s all I’ve got left.
Don’t know how to explain
that I show up not because I’m whole,
but because I refuse
to pass on this ache
wrapped in silence.
If love is a language,
then I’m still learning the alphabet—
one shaky letter at a time,
hoping my sons
learn to spell something
softer than I ever could.
And maybe one day,
they’ll read between the lines
of who I was
and understand
that even when I was quiet—
I was trying.
Always trying.
©manyfaces
M