There’s been a part of me that’s wanted to speak out.

To stand up.
To say something.
To protect what I believe in before it’s “too late.”

I’ve looked at the world, the rise of harmful ideologies, the silence around difficult issues—and I’ve felt that pressure build.

A quiet but urgent voice inside saying:

“If you don’t speak up, who will?”
“You have to protect what’s good. You can’t stay silent.”

At first glance, it felt like strength.
Like courage.
Like integrity.

But lately, I’ve been sitting with it more honestly.

The Voice Beneath the Voice

What I’ve realised is this:

That voice isn’t just about injustice in the world.
It’s about the child in me who was never protected.

The child who saw things happening and couldn’t stop them.
The child who felt powerless.
The child who wasn’t listened to, who wasn’t taken seriously, who learned that silence was dangerous—and that being unseen meant being unsafe.

So now, when I feel that same sense of silence in the world, that same risk rising in the background, it lights up something old.

A need to prove:

  • That I would stand up now.
  • That I am strong enough.
  • That I won’t be like the people who ignored what mattered.

But I’m Not That Child Anymore

And the truth is—I have grown.
I do see clearly.
I am grounded in what I believe.

And I no longer need to prove that.

I don’t need to make a loud video to earn my own respect.
I don’t need to argue online to know I’m paying attention.
I don’t need to insert myself into every public conversation to feel strong.

Because now, I know:

Real strength isn’t always visible.
Real protection isn’t always loud.
And real healing doesn’t need to perform.

The World Is Not Mine to Fix Alone

I care deeply about what happens to the people around me.
To my son.
To my society.
To the quietest voices who may not be heard.

But I also know:

  • I can’t carry the whole fight.
  • I don’t need to be the face of resistance.
  • Others are doing the work too.

And my energy is sacred.

Final Thought

Maybe I will speak one day.

Maybe I’ll write something, record something, take a stand more publicly.
But if I do, it won’t be because I need to prove anything.

It will be because I’ve chosen to.
From a place of peace, not pain.
From adulthood, not survival.
From integration, not urgency.

Because the truest power I’ve found
is the power to walk away without collapsing,
and to stay silent
without feeling small.