Still Figuring It Out: On Speaking Up When It’s Scary

There’s something I’ve been circling around for a while now.
Not quite ready to grab it head-on.
Not ignoring it either.
Just…orbiting.

source: https://www.un.org/en/actnow/speakup

It’s this question of voice — of using it, and what happens when you do.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with speaking out. On one hand, I’ve built my work around communication — how to talk to kids, how to say hard things with clarity and care, how to model empathy even when your buttons are pushed.

I believe words can soften the sharp edges of the world. I believe language and conversation matter.

But there’s a difference between speaking about something and speaking into something.

And lately, the world has felt so loud. So urgent. So many things to respond to — atrocities, misinformation, injustice, grief. So many opinions layered with anger and certainty. It can start to feel like every word you say is an invitation for someone to misunderstand you.

I’ve wanted to say more. About the violence we scroll past. About human rights. About how we talk to children about war, and pain, and difference. About why it feels like we're collectively becoming numb.

But I keep bumping into fear. Not just fear of backlash (though that’s real), but fear of getting it wrong. Fear of saying too much — or not enough. Fear of being perceived as performative, or naive, or conveniently late. Fear of being told: You should have said something sooner. Or differently. Or not at all.

And yet silence doesn’t feel right either. It feels like being in the room but keeping your eyes down.

I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to convince ourselves that someone else will say the thing. That someone more informed, or more eloquent, or more unaffected by criticism will take the risk. And often, someone does.

But the more I wait for someone else to speak for me, the further I drift from myself.

I don’t want to speak out just to be seen doing it. I don’t want to make everything content. I don’t want to post for applause. But I also don’t want my discomfort to masquerade as discernment. I don’t want my caution to become complicity.

There are so many things I still don’t know how to say. But I know that staying silent for too long starts to feel like forgetting — forgetting what I believe, forgetting who I am.

And part of what makes this all harder is how polarized everything feels. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to disagree without dehumanizing each other. So many of us have lost the ability to engage in real, respectful dialogue. And I feel like such a hypocrite even saying that because I’ve been quiet, too.

But I wrote this because I’m scared.

I believe in speaking up. I believe silence can be harmful. And I also know that it can feel safer.

I know how cruel people can be when you say something they don’t like. Especially online. Especially when you have a platform. My nervous system wasn’t built to handle an onslaught of vitriol. And I know I’m not alone in that.

I think a lot of people are sitting with the same mix of awareness and sadness and fear and guilt. Disappointed in ourselves for not doing more, and also disappointed in each other for how we’ve stopped listening.

And what scares me even more than the backlash…is the modeling.

I have a child. I teach children. And I know they are watching.

They’re absorbing how we navigate disagreement, how we speak (or don’t) when something matters. They’re watching the way we react when someone gets something wrong. They’re watching the way we shut each other down.

I want them to feel safe speaking up. I want them to learn how to do it with courage and care. But how will they learn that if so many adults have forgotten? What are we showing them when our conversations are fueled by outrage, but emptied of compassion?

I want to model something different.

That’s what I’m trying to do here. I’m not writing this because I’ve figured it all out, but because I haven’t.

I’m still sitting in the discomfort. Still sorting through the noise. Still trying to untangle fear from integrity, urgency from performance.

I don’t have a clear strategy. I don’t have perfect words. I just have this growing awareness that fear has been choosing for me, and I don’t want that anymore.

I don’t know exactly what moving forward looks like.

I just know I want to try.