In writing Love, Me, I aimed to be generous and even inclusive. I believed that by making space for everyone’s story and softening the harsh edges of truth, my words would be easier for others to accept. However, I found that in trying not to hurt others, I was still hurting myself. My silence and restraint were just new masks for an old pattern…suppressing my own story to preserve others’ comfort. I softened the truths, adjusted the sentences, and told myself I was being fair by allowing everyone’s perspective. But the more I wrote, the more I realized…I wasn’t truly telling my story at all. I was still protecting others, still silencing my voice so no one would have to face the discomfort of reality. 

My biggest life lesson at fifty-one is that I will no longer mute my story to prevent others from facing what they would rather ignore. For years, I practiced that… softening my words, shrinking my truth, staying silent so as not to upset the fragile balance of our family. Silence became an unspoken agreement, asking me to bear the burden of others’ comfort while hiding my own pain. It was easier for them if I stayed quiet. And for a long time, I convinced myself it was easier for me, too.

But silence erodes the soul. It fosters resentment, not resolution. Every time I bit my tongue, I felt myself disappear a little more. I wasn’t maintaining peace—I was protecting an illusion. Families are adept at this. They cling to the myth of togetherness, hiding fractures behind closed doors. They blur the line between love and avoidance, between loyalty and denial.

The moment one voice dares to unmute, everything shifts; all systems, whether families, institutions, or communities, are built to protect themselves. And when someone threatens that protection by speaking the truth, the system pushes back. In my family, the resistance was quick and harsh. Not because my side of the story was false, but because it was true. Because it exposed what others could not, or would not, face.

There were many times I tried to share the truth about situations, hold my family accountable, and ask them to take responsibility for their actions. But it was to no avail. The behaviors persisted, taking on different forms, each carrying the same painful thread of denial.

This happens because denial protects the collective image; families cling to the idea that “everything’s fine” as if their survival depends on it. The truth, when spoken, disrupts the code of loyalty, so honesty feels like betrayal. And shame, rather than being owned, is projected onto the one who names it. The truth-teller becomes the scapegoat, the living reminder of what others would rather erase.

And yet, remaining silent is like disappearing. The longer I muted myself, the more I felt distant from the person I was meant to be. My story was never meant to hurt; it was meant to reclaim. These words are not written with resentment but with reclamation: my way of honoring the girl I once was, the woman I am becoming, and the life I refuse to hide away in.

When my husband first read the manuscript, he said, “This is not your fight song.” And he was right. It is not.  It is my love song, to myself and to my dad.  I chose not to write a smear campaign.  But I also decided not to flinch from the truth and my experiences.  I told it the way I lived it, as faithfully as I could, because anything less would have been another form of silence. 

I understand that unmuting myself might cost me approval, closeness, or even belonging. But the price of silence is higher; costing me my very self. Speaking up means risking rejection. Remaining silent guarantees it. Therefore, I choose to speak. Not to condemn, but to claim. Not to break apart, but to heal. My story doesn’t need permission. My truth doesn’t need consensus. I refuse to be cast as the adversary in my own life, simply because others avoid facing their reflection.

I am no longer willing to trade silence for comfort. The truth may break what was never whole, but it will also set me free. My words are notes from the heart, written not for others but for myself. Still, I share them with love, for your benefit as well, because your story and your truth matter just as much as mine.

Never mute yourself for someone else’s comfort. Don’t trade your voice for a sense of belonging that costs your soul. Speak up, even if your voice trembles. Live your truth, and by doing so, you help others to do the same.

Love, Me.