AS the day finally comes to a halt — when everyone’s retreated to their rooms and the only thing left humming is the stand fan — that’s when the committee in my head clocks in, unpaid but unstoppable.
It’s the stillness that triggers it. The silence is deafening; it makes space for thoughts polite enough to wait until now.
And yes, some battles are fought in boardrooms, others in whispers. Mine happens somewhere between my ears — where two voices, equally stubborn, circle each other like seasoned fighters who know every weakness. The room is quiet, but in my head, the gloves are off.
Ethel: “Stay quiet if you don’t have anything to say. But if you do, be clear about what you want.”
Measured. Precise. The voice that edits emails three times before hitting send.
Mae: “Clear? While you’re editing your thoughts, someone else already closed the deal.”
Fast. Sharp. The voice that thrives on impulse and never waits for permission.
I try to sip my coffee in peace, but neither of them is backing down. This isn’t their first round. I’ve heard them argue in the middle of meetings — Ethel whispering, “Let it go,” while Mae screams, “Take the floor!” One wants to rewrite replies; the other wants to hit “send” and deal with the fallout later.
Ethel: “Silence is strategy. It keeps you in control.”
Mae: “No, silence is surrender. It doesn’t make you powerful; it just makes you replaceable.”
Point for Mae.
But Ethel’s calm doesn’t crack. “Words are like currency. Spend recklessly, and you go bankrupt.”
Mae fires back instantly. “And hoarding them makes you irrelevant. Congratulations, you’re rich in unspoken thoughts nobody cares about.”
This is where they always get me — because I’ve been both. That’s what years of navigating diplomacy and deadlines do to you. They train your tongue to measure risk in milliseconds. You learn to hold back and choose your battles.
I’ve spoken too soon, fought too hard, and walked away with the “win” but also the burned bridge.
I’ve stayed quiet when I should’ve spoken and watched doors close, soft but final.
It’s never about silence versus speech. It’s about timing — and timing is brutal.
I wish there were a manual for this. Something like Volume I: How to Shut Up Gracefully or Chapter Two: How to Speak Without Regret. But no, the syllabus is trial and error, and the exams never seem to end.
Still, I ask the question anyway: “So, what’s the right move?”
Ethel: “Speak less but make every word count.”
Mae: “Speak up, or someone else will count for you.”
And somewhere in the middle of this private war, the question surfaces:
What if neither voice is wrong?
Because here’s the truth:
Say too little, and I disappear into polite irrelevance.
Say too much, and I torch the room I wanted to enter.
But I’ve decided — I’m done being erased. Some rooms need a roar. Others demand a pause.
That’s the real test of wisdom — not how loudly you can speak, but how clearly you can hear yourself before you do. The world mistakes silence for weakness, but sometimes it’s just someone choosing their words like weapons they intend to use only once.
And when you master the pause, the words may move the room, but it’s the silence that decides who owns it.
Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
