There is a version of starting your whole life from scratch, and often at times that’s what the world loves to celebrate.
It’s visible. It comes with a lot of announcements and proof that things around you are changing.
But there is another kind of progress —the one that doesn’t really get noticed, and doesn’t ask to be seen all the time in every circumstance.
It happens when one comes to realise that they can no longer live the way they were used to living.
When staying the same is now seen as a burden rather than the fear of actually changing.
When the heart quietly decides: something has to be changed now.
This kind of development doesn’t involve moving cities or reinventing identities overnight. It looks like one is choosing peace over a constant state of performance. Learning to let go of habits that once felt like a survival state. Unlearning patterns that were never love, just familiarity.
Often, no one claps for this preconceived version of growth.
From the outside, life looks normal to some extent.
But inside, everything is recentering itself.
I’ve come to understand that the most significant changes don’t always announce themselves. They don’t ask for permission. They take time to unfold, in the private moments — and this is where real courage is practised, all without eyes watching you.
And maybe that is why taking things from scratch is rarely seen for what it truly is: not a wrong motive, but a commitment to actually becoming whole again.
In literature, this realisation has made a tradition of female characters whose inner worlds are different and appear distorted compared to their outer worlds. Their silence is often the result of family systems where authority was the base or cultural norms that equate obedience with virtue.
Modern feminist literary criticism has challenged the idea that empowerment must always be confrontational. Instead, it asks us to pay close attention to the forms of resistance that are sometimes subtle, like the unsaid thought, the withheld response, and the internal refusal.
Having a good knowledge of silence as context, rather than absence, makes readers feel more deeply with the narratives of women. It changes the focus from asking why she didn’t speak up. What made her silence necessary in the first place? In doing so, literature now becomes not just a reflection of women’s oppression, but a space where the intricacies of endurance and quiet struggle are finally put into consideration.
This article takes the narrative that silence in women should not be read as weakness or absence of agency. Instead, it states that silence often is seen as a deliberate form of withdrawal — a way women conform to and protect their inner selves when speaking openly because they would be punished for being authentic.
In many patriarchal contexts, voice is often controlled. Women who speak are labelled disruptive, disrespectful, or immoral. Within such systems, silence becomes a strategy of survival rather than compliance. Choosing when not to speak can be an assertion of control in environments where speech is policed. It is a refusal to perform emotional labour, explain pain, or justify existence.
From a literary perspective, this niche angle challenges dominant readings that equate empowerment only with vocal rebellion. It invites readers to consider quiet endurance, emotional withdrawal, and internal narration as meaningful political acts. The unsaid becomes so powerful as it reveals how oppression operates, especially among women.
By reclaiming the narrative that silence seems to hold, this piece situates women’s silence as a broader framework of feminist withdrawal. It argues that power does not always announce itself; sometimes, it survives in stillness and the decision to remain free inwardly even when outward freedom is neglected.
An intriguing case study of silence as withdrawal can be seen in the work and life of Elena Ferrante, the Italian novelist who has chosen to be anonymous throughout her literary career since she started.
Ferrante’s refusal to reveal her identity has often been framed by the media as really mysterious. However, her silence aligns with the conscious act of control in a literary culture that frequently neglects women writers more for their personal lives than their profession. By withholding her physical identity, Ferrante talks about the expectation that women must be visible and explainable to be legitimate by society's standards.
In her essays, particularly Frantumaglia, Ferrante strongly talks about anonymity, which allows the work to stand on its own, free from the pressures of gendered interpretation by others.
Literarily, Ferrante’s novels have a rather audacious call about this resistance. Her female characters often internalise their struggles, choosing emotional withdrawal rather than confrontation, like the men often tend to show. Their silence mirrors the withdrawal placed upon them by patriarchy and domestic expectation — yet it also becomes a space for inner clarity. What they do not say, however, carries as much weight as what they can articulate.
Ferrante’s case more so talks about the silence as an intentional strategy rather than a limiting factor. By choosing not to speak publicly, she has control of the narrative, proving that power does not always need visibility to exist the majority of the time. Her success challenges the expectation that empowerment must be public, reinforcing the idea that restraint itself can be radical.
Personally, Ferrante’s choice resonates so much because it changes the narrative we seem to have about women's empowerment. Society teaches women that to be strong and constantly perform for approval. But what if strength could be quiet? Silence can be seen as a tool, instead of a trap.
Power isn’t always about being in control; sometimes it’s about being intentional with how and the manner you choose to articulate your words.
Choosing when to speak is as important as the words we finally learn to release. Withdrawal fosters clarity and inner freedom.
Quiet strength is a presence re-established. Women like Ferrante show us that we don’t always need to be seen in public eyes to be powerful, or vocal to be heard. Sometimes, the most life-changing act is to preserve your voice and light until the moment it matters most to the world. In silence, we find autonomy and a space to become ourselves fully.
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