People who lived in loud families are often so quiet. It sounds strange, right? But it’s true. They carry the trauma baggage for their entire life. When you grow up in chaos, your default mode becomes silence, not because you don’t have anything to say, but because you’ve been taught that speaking up either won’t matter or will make things worse. Living with narcissistic parents or parents who were physically there but emotionally absent is a whole different battle. And here’s the thing: those kinds of parents don’t even realise the damage they cause. They walk around acting like their lives were harder than anyone else’s. Meanwhile, their kids? Carrying scars no one can see. You know the type, people who act like every small inconvenience is the biggest tragedy in the world. They get dramatic over tiny things while their kids are busy fighting silent wars inside themselves. Honestly, I don’t think even Superman feels that much pressure. Living with parents like that is a very big deal. You’re not just growing up, you’re surviving. And do you know why Gen Z often looks so “chill”? Why do they act like nothing is happening, even when their whole life is on fire? It’s because that’s their normal. Constant criticism. Constant judgment. Constant “you’re not enough.” So they’ve built this mask of indifference. They say meh.., I’ll figure it out because if they took everything to heart, they would have collapsed under the weight of it all.

This generation? Let’s be real, they’re carrying the most trauma, the most depression, the most anxiety. If there were a competition for which generation is the most emotionally burnt out? Gen Z would win gold, silver, and bronze. And me? I don’t even know if I’m fortunate or unfortunate, but I’m one of them. Not the youngest Gen Z, the beginning of Gen Z. We were the test batch. The title of this article might not make sense yet, but I’m just warming up this article for you.

The girl who stayed quiet too long is me. But let me be clear, I’m not the quiet one in the way people usually mean. I don’t walk around mute. I don’t sit in corners, nodding, while life passes by. Not anymore. As a child, yes, that was me. The silent one. The girl who swallowed her words stayed out of the way and kept her head down. But teenage me? Oh, you’d meet a completely different version. Loud. Explosive. Irritated. Screaming at the smallest triggers. People around me probably thought, “Wow, what a change.” But it wasn’t really a change. It was all the silence, all the swallowed anger, all the invisible pain spilling out.

Because here’s the ugly truth- when you silence yourself for too long, it doesn’t go away. It builds. It mutates. It turns into rage, into defensiveness, into overreactions. That’s what happened to me. I wasn’t born angry or difficult. I was made that way, trained by years of silence until my voice finally broke through in the loudest, messiest way possible. And let me tell you, being “the quiet one” isn’t peaceful. People think quiet kids are calm, mature, and patient. No. Most of the time, they’re just scared. They’re keeping the peace while fighting a storm inside. It’s self-betrayal dressed up as serenity.

I thought silence would protect me. That if I kept my head down, if I smiled politely, if I let people stomp through my boundaries with muddy boots, at least I’d be safe. At least I’d be loved. But silence is a liar. It tricks you into believing that your needs don’t matter. That your feelings are optional. That existing quietly is better than being too much. And slowly, you become invisible, even to yourself. That’s what happened to me. I replayed conversations in my head, whispering the comebacks I never said.

• “That hurt me.”
• “I deserve better than this.”
• “Stop treating me like I don’t matter.”

But when morning came, I zipped my lips and played my role again. The agreeable one. The easy one. The one who doesn’t complain. The girl who stayed quiet too long. And you know what silence breeds? Loneliness. You can sit in a room full of people, laughing and talking, and still feel like a ghost. Because you’re not really there. You’re watching life happen to everyone else, waiting for your turn that never comes. So why am I saying all this? Because eventually, I realised if I kept quiet forever, I’d disappear. And when I started speaking up, it wasn’t glamorous. My voice shook. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I said the wrong thing. Sometimes people walked away. But every time I used my voice, I felt more real. More alive. Some people couldn’t handle it. They liked the quiet version of me better, the one who absorbed their mess without ever pushing back. But the ones who stayed? They got to meet the real me. The messy, loud, complicated, passionate me. The girl who laughs too loud, loves too hard, and sometimes says exactly what’s on her mind. And guess what? That version is worth more than silence ever was. Here’s the thing: silence might keep you safe for a while, but it will never let you live.

I was quiet for way too long. But not anymore. Now I’m messy, I’m real, I’m loud. And if you’re reading this, sitting there with swallowed words and heavy silence, I want you to know you’re not alone. Your voice matters. Your story matters. Don’t disappear from your own life. Because you deserve so much more than just survival.

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