The Voice You Haven’t Used Yet
May 2025
Since the moment I learned how to speak and understand even the most basic English language, I knew that many people saw me as something they wanted to fix or figure out. I’ve listened to people call me shy before even spending five full minutes with me. I’ve been asked countless times “why don’t you talk?” by people who have never even tried to speak to me, as if there is ever a comfortable way to answer a question like that. They aren’t looking for a real answer, not truly. I’ve been underestimated, misjudged, and singled out for my reserved nature all of my life. The difference today, is that it doesn’t affect me anymore— I’ve accepted who I am, and I refuse to perform.
In the United States, a country where introversion is often viewed as a flaw, many people don’t understand what those kinds of questions, judgements, and comments can do to people like me, and especially to young children who are still figuring out who they are. When someone tells a child who they are, the child will believe them. So, when people called me shy, I believed it, internalized it, and continued to act “shy” because that’s what I believed was expected from me. It wasn’t until I reached my early 20’s that I realized I’m not shy, and I was not a shy child. I’ve always preferred to listen, observe, and speak when it matters. Speaking costs me a lot of energy, and I’ve learned that I like to spend my energy very carefully.
For years, I believed I had social anxiety due to an intense fear of being perceived incorrectly, of saying the wrong things, and from not knowing how to have “normal conversations” like other people seemed to have so easily. About a year ago, I realized that the anxiety was always just underlying pressure. Pressure to fit in, to not appear too quiet or awkward, and pressure to pretend to be someone I wasn’t. When I wasn’t speaking, I felt immense anxiety about the fact that I wasn’t speaking. I believed I needed to “fix” my quietness in order to be loved, seen, or respected. Once I realized that I’m actually perfectly okay with being an observer, the anxiety from not performing disappeared along with it. I don’t feel the need to speak unless it matters to me, and that was never a flaw. In fact, the world needs more of us.
Quiet ones pick up on things the extroverts often miss. We observe, we connect dots, we wonder. We are artists, poets, healers, writers, dreamers, and deeply intuitive people who the world often writes off too quickly, simply because some people cannot fathom keeping so much to themselves. They assume we are boring, incompetent, or rude. There isn’t anything wrong with being outgoing or extroverted— but the problem is that a lot of them, in my experience, expect and want us to change. That’s where the comments and the rude questions come from. I’m just grateful for the many people who have spoken up for me in those awkward moments. Those are my favorite types of extroverts— the ones who respect and defend us without needing any validation in return. It gives me hope that our culture is growing to respect both introversion and extroversion.
I have always been deeply drawn to Japanese culture— not just because I lived there as a child, but because I connect more with cultures that value thoughtfulness, restraint, and the beauty of subtlety. In Japan, there is a saying, “kamoku na hito hodo, kokoro no naka ni fukai sekai ga aru,” which means, “the quieter a person is, the deeper their inner world tends to be.” Quietness is seen as a respectful form of wisdom, not a lack of personality. It is viewed as strength, not weakness.
Apart from my innate introversion, I deeply believed for much of my life that I had absolutely nothing important to say or contribute in any situation, ever. My self-esteem was truly nonexistent. I shrank in every single space I ever entered— I slouched terribly in attempt to hide (I’m 5’9, there’s no hiding for me), I avoided eye contact, and I barely stayed in spaces where I thought someone I didn’t know might talk to me. Even with my close circle, I couldn’t fully express myself. I didn’t even know who I was, let alone what I could possibly say that would mean anything. It makes me emotional to write that— because now I know that I have so much insight, so much love, and so many stories to share. It cracks my heart open all over again to remember the girl I used to be, and how so many others out there still feel the same way I used to.
I was born deeply observant, emotional, and intuitive. That automatically makes me someone with a lot to say. If the version of myself from even two years ago, let alone my child self, knew that I am now singing, putting my writing out there, and sharing my story, she’d freak. These are things I’ve always wanted to do, but never felt sure enough of myself to try. I assumed I’d get a regular job and live my life hidden away, because that’s what felt comfortable— but I’m tired of being comfortable. I’m ready to share my voice, my perspective, and my experiences. God didn’t give me this mind, heart, and resilience, for me to keep it to myself. I truly believe it would be selfish of me not to share my experience. If it helps just one person accept themselves or heal, it is worth everything to me.