My therapist told me recently, that “when you do not reassess your loyalty and connection to unsafe people, you are only being complicit in the abuse.”
Immediately after our session, this morning, I thought about it some more.
I started to tell myself, when you fail to rise above, you’re enabling the cycle of harm.
When you do not set boundaries, even with those you care about, your well-being and values are compromised.
Allow me to paraphrase what she said next.
“Reassessing relationships, connections, and situations do not make you a bad person, that’s not your shame to carry; it makes you someone who values respect, safety, and personal growth.”
I am a writer and a scholar. I have written about the ways I have studied silence.
Staying neutral isn’t always the safe choice — it’s often the most harmful one. Silence in the face of abuse isn’t neutral. It’s complicity. And neutrality is not actionable.
Neutrality is a mask for complacency.
I know this, already.
I know that if we truly care about progress, we have to be willing to take a side when it counts. The world needs action, not passivity. Choosing to stand for what’s right matters, even when it’s hard. To choose to be unliked.
When we stand by and say nothing, we inadvertently allow the harmful cycle to continue. I’ve see it, and I’ve done it.
Whether it’s personal, social, or systemic, turning a blind eye doesn’t make us neutral. It makes us more responsible because we are diverting accountability for the sake of ignorance.
It makes us part of the problem.
I keep seeing all over forums and social media posts, statements that if we care about justice, compassion, and human dignity, we must find and use our voices.
Other statements that echo self-preservation and healing. Ideas geared towards way to protect your peace and lessons on how choosing yourself is more than just the consideration of making a tough call.
That all of it, it’s not selfish, it’s necessary.
“You have to trust that protecting your mental and emotional health isn’t a one-time decision, but a daily practice.”
I know that saying “no,” walking away, or setting boundaries is an act of self-love, not weakness.
The people, situations, and habits that no longer serve you need to be released.
I’ve debated, whether or not silence may feel easier. But, I know it’s not.
I know when we remain quiet, we are giving abuse the power to thrive.
Yet, there’s a certain weight to silence.
A burden many of us have carried for years — sometimes even decades — out of fear, shame, or the belief that speaking up will only bring more pain.
But what happens when that silence becomes unbearable? What happens when we realize that remaining quiet, for the sake of peace or avoiding conflict, is slowly eroding our very sense of selves?
I know that choosing to speak out — whether it’s about personal trauma, societal injustices, or simply refusing to be silenced any longer — feels like an act of survival.
But, come on, let’s be real: it’s hard. It’s messy. It’s filled with grief, pain, and uncertainty. And for many of us, it feels like walking into the fire, knowing you may get burned.
I teach as a college professor. I work in academia. I have seen how silence has been used as a tactic to “protect us.”
It’s safer, less confrontational. But what we don’t realize is that when we stay silent, we protect the abuser, the oppressor, or the unhealthy situation that continues to harm us.
That quiet compliance becomes a cage we build around ourselves — one we can’t escape from without confronting the discomfort of speaking out.
I’ve known what it’s like to be kept in cages, and at other times, I’ve felt fear. I know what it’s like to be afraid to leave the cage even when the door is open.
The truth is, silence doesn’t just shield us from pain; it creates its own. The pain of suppression. The ache of a voice that wants to be heard but is forced into submission. It’s a gnawing feeling that stays with us, quietly eroding our sense of worth and identity, until we can no longer ignore it.
I have felt the impulses to act, the drive toward movements where I want to and choose to speak out. It’s like breaking through a wall.
For some time in my life, I thought that silence would make things easier. That by staying passive, I could avoid the fallout. But in truth, and at times with my back up against the wall, I have learned that not speaking up is a silent form of consent. It’s agreeing that the world can stay as it is — unjust, painful, and unchanging.
I’ve learned that when you choose to speak out, you are, yes, choosing the harder path. And when it comes, it’s the path where you risk discomfort, rejection, and even the loss of people or things you thought were “family,” “friends,” “community” . . . “stable.”
I’ve learned that the only way to rise above is to embrace the pain, to confront your own fears and insecurities, even at the moments when you like you’re walking alone.
I’ve learned how to choose my own survival. And I am still learning how to choose my own your dignity. I choose the kind of life where my voice matters — not just to others, but to me.
Speaking out doesn’t mean you won’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. It doesn’t mean the road will be smooth or the support will be guaranteed. But I know I am not living in denial anymore, and I am not accepting the unacceptable.
Living in our truth, well, there’s a kind of power that comes with that. But the most important note is that we are not living in the shadows of silence, or someone else’s shame.
But, over the course of my life, reflecting on all my experiences, I have learned that with that liberation comes grief. Immense grief. Grief for what you’ve lost, for the relationships you may jeopardize, for the life you’re leaving behind. Or the story of it all.
I have known that the grief comes with this is very, very real. The fear is valid. But what’s even more real is the sense of freedom I’ve felt when I finally stop holding my breath.
You may grieve the version of yourself that was quieter, more passive. You may grieve the fear of what others will think or the judgment you know you’ll face.
In some cases, I even grieved the absence of those who supported my silence — the ones who told me — directly and even indirectly — that it was easier to keep things quiet, being closed doors, to do the way it’s always been done.
I know what it’s like to grieve, I know what it feels like to let go of the illusion.
I have tried to allow myself to feel that pain, to sit, to find strength on the other side.
The grief doesn’t last forever. But my voice? That stays. Or so, I’ve been told.
If you’re reading this and you’re standing on the edge of choosing to speak out, know this: you’re not alone. I see you. I am here with you.
Just don’t do anything that you do not want to do. Don’t do anything that would cause you more harm and uncertainty.
While I believe that the toughest roads are the best journeys, you have to do what’s right for you to reclaim your voice and authenticity.
Only you can truly know the steps toward your own healing, what’s best for you.
I just want to remind you, and maybe myself again, “that you are worth it.” Your voice matters. And no amount of grief or pain can take that away from you.
Who knew that allowing yourself to fully exhale is really about allowing yourself to live.
I’ll try to remind myself . . . to talk care of myself, to ground myself, to find ways to stay centered. To be present.
Well, I mean, the present moment kind of sucks, doesn’t it?
I’ll try to tell myself, over and over, focus on what truly matters — your chosen relationships, your community, and your own well-being.
Try you best to not get caught in the crossfire.
Right.
My wife always says, “Let them.”
I’ll try to take a page out of her book. I’ll try to do what helps me to move through the noise.
I learned something like this in recovery. The choice is simple: let go or be dragged.
So, I guess when we decide, when choose ourselves, we are affirming that our stories, our experiences, our feelings, our lives matter — that we matter.
I really wanted to end today’s reflection with levity and positivity. But the weight of it all is daunting. It’s heavy and exhausting.
I’ve tried to live up to the practice of not accepting the unacceptable.
Now, I feel like I am trying to find the strength to carry the weight of the unbearable, for the sake of being, or as these days feel, for simply existing.
© Danielle Bacibianco 2025 | All rights reserved
