Breaking The Silence - This Is How a Story Begins

A melancholic figure wrapped in a blanket sits on the sidewalk, holding a sign that reads "Help Desk: Emotional Tech Support (Currently Offline)," alongside a second sign that reassures, "Don't Worry, I Filed a Complaint." An overturned umbrella and a mug labeled "World's Okayest Survivor" complete the somber scene.

I don’t imagine this blog will attract a following. I’m not under any illusions about that. I don’t think the internet is teeming with people hoping someone like me will come along and tell them something they didn’t already know. I know how easily this kind of writing gets passed over. It isn’t neat. It doesn’t soothe. It doesn’t teach anyone how to make sourdough or fix their SEO score or glow up after grief.

But I’m writing anyway.

Not because I believe there’s a market for what I have to say—but because the alternative is silence. And silence, for me, has never been neutral. It’s been suffocating. A burial ground where memory decays into something formless and toxic. I’m writing because I’m in pain. And this pain has become unmanageable in its current shape—too large, too scattered, too shapeless. What writing offers me is not peace, but structure. To sort the chaos. To name what has no name.

“A concept without a name is like a stray dog or feral cat. To domesticate it, you have to call it something.”— Ruth Kluger

It’s a quote that has haunted me. The idea that pain without language wanders. It becomes wild. It doesn’t respect borders, doesn’t obey time. And the moment you speak it—call it something, shape it into syllables—it begins to change. Not because it becomes smaller, or prettier, but because now it has a place. Now, it’s no longer everything. It’s only what it is.

I don’t want to domesticate my trauma. That word tastes wrong in my mouth. But I do want to locate it. I want to put pins in the map. Here is where it started. Here is where it intensified. Here is where I was left alone with it. If I can do that, then maybe I won’t have to live inside it. Maybe I can walk alongside it instead. Maybe I can begin to live beside it, rather than beneath it.

The Loneliness That Doesn’t End When People Come Back

There are forms of loneliness people are willing to acknowledge. The kind you can tell your friend about, and they’ll nod sympathetically. The loneliness of losing someone. Of moving to a new place. Of waking up in a house that feels foreign because something vital is no longer inside it. That kind of loneliness is painful—but it is legible. It has a shape that fits into conversation.

The kind I carry doesn’t.

My loneliness is not about the absence of others. It’s about the collapse of shared reality. I could sit next to someone, inches apart, and still feel more distant than if we lived on opposite ends of the planet. It’s the loneliness of feeling like your internal world no longer matches the one you’re expected to function in. Like you’ve been banished into some invisible country, and no one even notices you’re gone.

When the thing that haunts me doesn’t even register for you, something fundamental breaks. The breach is not just emotional—it’s epistemic. If I tell you what happened, and your eyes slide away, or your tone stays unchanged, or worse, you tell me it’s not that bad—what happens to my reality then?

Sometimes I imagine that I’m speaking a language no one else understands. I’m still forming words, still using sentences, but they land like static. Not because I’m unclear—but because the frequency I’m speaking from is too altered by grief to be heard clearly in the world I once shared.

This is why I write. Not to seek pity. Not even to seek understanding, though I’d take it if it came. I write to build something between my reality and yours. A footbridge, maybe. A place to meet. A place where the exiled might be recognized again as human.

But if that bridge is ever to hold weight, it can’t be built by words alone. It matters what stories we tell ourselves about who owes what to whom—and for what reasons. If we live in a world where harm is only acknowledged when it can be litigated, then we are living in a world that has traded justice for convenience. And too often, it’s the survivors who pay that cost.

The responsibility to rebuild—to make room again for the ordinary rhythms of a life that was interrupted—cannot fall solely on the shoulders of the harmed. That burden must be distributed across a broader moral landscape. It belongs to all of us: to victims and perpetrators, yes, but also to bystanders, witnesses, legal professionals

Breaking The Silence

We often think of storytelling as a comforting refuge, a cherished pastime that we engage in after significant events to help us make sense of our experiences. It serves as a bridge between our past and present, allowing us to reflect on what has transpired and to weave our narratives into something coherent and meaningful. However, this perspective holds true primarily for those whose lives have remained relatively intact, whose experiences have not shattered their sense of self. For the rest of us—those who have endured profound loss, trauma, or upheaval—telling our stories transcends mere luxury; it becomes a vital act of survival, a necessary means of reclaiming our identity and agency in a world that may feel overwhelmingly chaotic.

Through my own journey, I have come to understand that when pain lacks a healthy outlet, it inevitably turns inwards, festering and becoming corrosive to the very core of our being. This internalized anguish can manifest in various ways, often leading to feelings of isolation and despair. When a story remains untold, when there is no audience to bear witness to our struggles, it begins to unravel, losing its structure and meaning. This unraveling can be particularly disorienting for the individual who experienced the events firsthand. I have found myself confronting memories that have started to feel distant and unreal, almost as if they belong to someone else. This disconnection arises from the profound truth that no one else has shared in those moments, no one has held those memories alongside me, and as a result, they begin to fade into obscurity.

Untold trauma possesses a unique power to erode our sense of certainty and reality. It can lead us to question the validity of our wounds, making us wonder if they even matter or of signifigance to the rest of humanity, or if perhaps we have merely misremembered the events that contributed to our undoing. This internal dialogue can be incredibly damaging, as it fosters doubt and diminishes our ability to acknowledge our suffering. The absence of an empathetic listener can exacerbate this struggle, leaving us trapped in a cycle of silence where our pain festers without acknowledgment or validation.

Storytelling then becomes not just an art form, it is a crucial lifeline. It offers a platform for expressing the inexpressible, a way to articulate the complexities of our experiences. By sharing our stories, we invite others into our world, allowing them to witness our struggles and triumphs, thereby creating a shared space of understanding and connection. This act of storytelling can serve as a powerful catalyst for healing, enabling us to reclaim our narratives and affirm our existence in a world that may otherwise seek to silence us.

Ultimately, the process of telling our stories can be transformative. It empowers us to confront our pain, to weave together the fragmented pieces of our experiences, and to emerge with a renewed sense of self. Through this act, we not only honor our past but also pave the way for a future where our voices are heard, valued, and celebrated. In this way, storytelling becomes an essential tool for survival, fostering resilience and connection in the face of adversity.

“Human life, even in its privacy, relies on a cooperatively authored world.” —Jill Stauffer

If no one helps hold your reality, it can begin to slip away into the shadows of doubt and confusion. This is the second violence: to survive something that should never have happened in the first place, a trauma that leaves indelible scars on the psyche, and then to feel as though you must justify your own pain just to make it legible to those around you. It is a cruel irony that after enduring such profound suffering, which then you must navigate the treacherous waters of societal expectations and the often unspoken rules that dictate how we express our grief and trauma. The weight of this expectation can feel unbearable, as if you are being asked to prove the validity of your own experiences, to translate your suffering into a language that others can comprehend, even when they have not walked your path.

I decided to start this blog because silence is untenable, a heavy burden that has been eating away at me from the inside. It gnaws at my spirit, creating a void that feels insurmountable. I refuse to vanish into the empty space where empathy should have lived, where understanding and compassion ought to flourish. Instead, I am carving these words into digital stone, a testament to my existence and my experiences. I need to be heard—not for applause, not for accolades or recognition, but for the fundamental human need for connection and acknowledgment. I seek confirmation that I exist, that my voice matters, and that what was done to me is not just a fleeting moment in time but a significant chapter in the narrative of my life. This act of writing becomes a lifeline, a way to reclaim my story and assert my presence in a world that often overlooks the pain of others. Each word is a step toward healing, a declaration that I will not be silenced, and that my truth deserves to be shared and validated.

But I know telling my story will never be enough. Yes, recognition of the harms I have suffered is indeed the first step to healing, but it is not the only one, nor is it sufficient on its own. I find myself yearning for the ability to resume the ordinary and everyday activities of life that so many take for granted. However, how can I do so comfortably when I am constantly reminded of the ruins of what was done to me? The scars of my past are not merely emotional; they manifest in the very fabric of my daily existence. Each day feels like a struggle against the backdrop of my trauma, and I am perpetually drawn back in time to that moment of pain and loss.

Every time I confront the reality of what I have lost—the dreams and aspirations that were snatched away from me—I am pulled into a vortex of sorrow. The possibilities that were once within my grasp now feel like distant stars, forever out of reach. Living in severe poverty exacerbates this sense of loss. It is not just a financial struggle; it is a relentless reminder of the opportunities that have slipped through my fingers. Each hunger pang I experience is a visceral reminder of the resources I lack, a stark indicator of how my circumstances have diminished my ability to thrive.

Moreover, the moments of boredom that creep in are not mere inconveniences; they are poignant reminders of what could have been. It is in these quiet, idle moments that I reflect on missed opportunities—opportunities that could have led to a more fulfilling life. The inability to afford bus fare, for instance, is not just a financial limitation; it symbolizes a larger systemic failure that keeps me trapped in a cycle of despair. Each time I am unable to travel to a job interview, a social gathering, or an educational opportunity, I feel the weight of my circumstances pressing down on me, reinforcing the barriers that keep me from moving forward.

Recognition is undeniably the first step, but true recovery requires much more than acknowledgment of my suffering. It necessitates repair—comprehensive, meaningful repair that addresses the deep-seated issues that have led to my current state. Unfortunately, our legal system, which is often seen as a path to justice, frequently falls short of delivering the kind of repair that is truly needed. It can provide a semblance of acknowledgment, but it rarely offers the tangible support necessary to rebuild a life that has been shattered.

In the absence of a robust support system that includes mental health services, financial aid, and community resources, the journey toward healing feels insurmountable. I am left grappling with the reality that while my story may be heard, the structures in place do not facilitate the kind of transformation I desperately seek. The path to recovery is not just about being heard; it is about being supported in a way that enables me to reclaim my life from the ruins of my past. Until that happens, I will continue to navigate the complex landscape of my trauma, longing for the day when I can finally step out of the shadows and into the light of a hopeful future.

The Law Will Never Be Enough

The law operates in binaries. It delineates clear lines between guilty and innocent, right and wrong, action and consequence. These stark dichotomies create a framework that can feel rigid and unyielding, serving as a blunt instrument in the complex landscape of human experience. For certain matters, perhaps this binary approach is all we have at our disposal. However, when it comes to the intricate and deeply emotional work of healing and restoration, the law is not merely inadequate—it becomes irrelevant. It fails to capture the nuances of human suffering, the layers of trauma, and the multifaceted nature of recovery.

It is entirely possible to win a case in a court of law and still feel a profound sense of erasure. A person can be vindicated on paper, with all the legal accolades that come with it, yet find themselves grappling with an emotional void that the legal system cannot fill. Repairing one’s sense of self and rebuilding a life after trauma is not a matter of receiving a favorable verdict; it is a complex process that involves reconstructing an entire world that has been shattered. This process of rebuilding is inherently communal; it requires support, understanding, and connection with others. No one can embark on this journey of restoration alone, and to suggest otherwise is to ignore the fundamental nature of human interdependence.

This is a critical point that many people overlook: healing cannot occur in isolation. The burden placed on survivors to simply “move on” without the necessary social support, without moral recognition, and without a designated space to express and process their grief is a form of violence in itself. It asks individuals to shoulder their trauma as if it were a private failure, rather than recognizing it as a collective wound that affects not just the individual, but the community as a whole. The expectation that one can heal in solitude dismisses the reality that trauma often reverberates through relationships, families, and social networks, impacting everyone connected to the survivor.

"One day humanity will play with law just as children play with disused objects, not in order to restore them to their canonical use but to free them from it for good." -Giorgio Agamben, 'State of Exception'

We have to do better. The call for improvement cannot be met with superficial gestures such as merely “raising awareness” or posting statements of support on social media platforms. These actions, while well-intentioned, often fall short of addressing the deeper, systemic issues at play. Instead, we must commit to doing the harder, more meaningful work of building a culture that actively refuses to erase or disappear individuals after they have been harmed. This involves fostering an environment that emphasizes accountability—not just in legal terms, but also in moral and ethical dimensions. It means creating a society that openly acknowledges the pain of others, that says: we see you. We believe you. And we will help carry the burdens that you should never have had to carry alone. This is the essence of true solidarity, and it is through this shared commitment to support and uplift one another that we can begin to heal collectively.

What Lives Between Guilt and Innocence

We like simple stories. Villains and victims. Monsters and martyrs. These narratives often provide a comforting framework, allowing us to categorize individuals and events into neat boxes that are easy to understand. However, if you spend any meaningful time in the ruins of real harm, you quickly come to the realization that most people exist somewhere in between these starkly defined roles. The truth is far more complex, and that complexity is where the real work lies. It is found in the middle ground, in the murky waters of human experience, and in the morally gray areas that challenge our perceptions and beliefs.

Between guilt and innocence lies a vast and intricate landscape—a terrain marked by silence, complicity, apathy, and the often unintentional consequences of good intentions gone slack. This landscape is not merely a void; it is filled with the echoes of decisions made and not made, actions taken and left undone. If we persist in the belief that harm only arises from the actions of overtly evil individuals engaging in malevolent deeds, we will remain blind to the deeper truths of human behavior and the societal structures that allow such harm to proliferate. Most harm occurs in the mundane aspects of life, in the everyday moments when people fail to notice the suffering around them. It is found in the casual shrug of indifference, in the instinctual turning away from discomfort, and in the collective silence that allows injustice to flourish.

That’s why true justice requires more than mere punishment. It necessitates a deeper, more nuanced approach that includes moral imagination—the capacity to critically examine our own roles in the narratives of harm and healing. This examination does not confine us to the roles of perpetrators; rather, it invites us to reflect on our positions as individuals who might have done more, yet chose not to. We must confront the uncomfortable reality that many of us have opted for comfort over care, simplicity over the often painful pursuit of truth, and distance over the act of witnessing the struggles of others. This moral reckoning is essential if we are to move towards a more just society.

Moreover, if we are genuinely committed to the process of healing, we must expand our inquiries beyond merely identifying who is guilty. We need to ask who is responsible for the harm that has transpired. Who were the individuals who helped, even in small ways? Who failed to act when action was needed? Who looked away when they could have intervened? And crucially, who is willing to stay engaged now, in the aftermath of harm, to confront the complexities of the situation and work towards restoration? These questions push us to reconsider our own roles and responsibilities within our communities and challenge us to take action that transcends passive observation.

Why must we do this? Because how else will it get done?