I fold things into my chest.

I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. It feels natural now, almost like second nature. When something hurts, disappoints me, or simply isn’t worth the energy it would take to explain, I fold it into my chest.

But I didn’t always do it by choice.

I remember learning as a child that I was supposed to be seen and not heard. When I tried to talk about my interests or what I wanted to become when I grew up, I was told I could only hope for domestication and marriage. As though becoming someone’s wife was the only future a little girl needed to imagine for herself.

When I expressed my feelings, they seemed insignificant compared to whatever the adults around me were dealing with. My little feelings didn’t carry much weight.

So I folded them into my chest.

When I got older and talked to my parents about college, they both said no. Once again, I felt as though one of my dreams had been snuffed out before I’d even had the opportunity to pursue it.

I folded that into my chest too.

As a teenager, I tried to share my opinions and question the things that didn’t make sense to me. I was told I was disrespectful or that I thought I was better than everyone else.

“Know your place.”

So I became quieter.

I read.

A lot.

Books became a place where questions were allowed. They introduced me to ideas, people, places, and possibilities beyond the world I knew. Somewhere in all that silence, I developed a love for books and learning that eventually led me to become a Literature and Language Arts teacher and later a Learning and Development professional.

But I wasn’t quiet everywhere.

In spaces where my voice was welcomed, I used it. I was opinionated, and people knew it. I became someone others came to for advice, perspective, and sometimes simply to help them think through their own lives.

People noticed that about me.

Looking back, I realize my voice was always there. I had simply learned where it was safe to use it and where it was easier to fold it into my chest.

Religion taught me to fold things into my chest too.

There were questions I wanted to ask about God, the Bible, my religion, and the church, but questioning could be interpreted as being unconverted or rebellious.

I questioned why I should submit to a husband who wasn’t mimicking the image of God I had been taught to follow.

I questioned why church members were expected to follow leaders who weren’t held accountable for their actions and sometimes led with entitlement and arrogance.

Eventually, I stopped asking some of those questions out loud.

I didn’t want to become an outcast.

So once again, I folded them into my chest.

But something changed as I got older.

The silence that had once been imposed upon me became something I began choosing for myself.

One of the clearest examples came when I decided to end my marriage and eventually leave the church.

For years, I had been expected to forgive my husband’s adultery and remain in the marriage. Forgiveness was encouraged again and again, while what the repeated betrayal was doing to me seemed to matter far less.

When I finally decided I was leaving, I didn’t announce it.

I folded my decision into my chest.

My adult children knew immediately, but for months, I kept my decision from friends and family.

This time, I wasn’t silent because I was afraid to speak.

I was silent because I didn’t want anyone else’s voice competing with mine.

I needed time to sit with my decision without being told what a wife should do, what a Christian should do, what my family needed, or what anyone else thought was best for me.

For months, the decision belonged to me.

I thought about it.

I processed it.

I became comfortable with it.

And when I finally told my friends and family, I made something very clear.

I wasn’t sharing my decision to solicit opinions.

I was informing them of my decision.

There was nothing left to debate.

That was one of the first times I understood that folding something into my chest could be very different from the silence I had learned as a little girl.

This time, silence wasn’t being imposed upon me.

I chose it.

And within that silence, I could finally hear myself.

I discovered that I didn’t have to explain every thought.

I didn’t have to defend every decision.

I didn’t have to convince someone to understand me.

And I didn’t need everyone else’s validation to trust what I knew and felt.

There are times when protecting my energy means allowing someone not to understand me.

Sometimes silence gives me the space to process without other people’s opinions competing with my own. It allows me to ask myself what I believe, what I need, what needs healing, and what I want to do next.

Sometimes I need that solitude to rebuild.

To think.

To heal.

To find myself again.

Folding things into my chest isn’t always about hiding anymore.

Sometimes it’s about holding something close until I understand what it means to me.

There is a difference between being silenced and choosing silence.

I wish I had learned to use my voice before I learned to silence it. I wish that little girl’s questions had been welcomed and her dreams had been nurtured.

They weren’t.

But my voice was always there.

Sometimes it came out in my opinions. Sometimes it came out in the advice I gave others. Sometimes it came out in the questions I wasn’t supposed to ask.

And somewhere inside all that silence, I became a thinker.

I became an observer.

I became curious.

I learned to question.

And I learned that having a voice doesn’t mean I have to use it everywhere.

Maybe you fold things into your chest too.

If you do, ask yourself why.

Are you quiet because you’re afraid of being judged, rejected, or misunderstood?

Or are you quiet because you’ve already learned that this person or this situation doesn’t deserve any more of your energy?

There is a difference.

One is silence imposed on you.

The other is a choice.

Your voice belongs to you. You get to decide when to use it, who gets to hear it, and what you choose to keep close while you figure things out for yourself.

Folding something into your chest doesn’t always mean you’re weak, afraid, or voiceless. Sometimes it means you’re giving yourself the space to think before the world tells you what you should think.

So now, when I fold something into my chest, I ask myself why.

Am I silencing myself?

Or am I choosing myself?

That answer matters.

Sometimes you have to speak up.

And sometimes it means knowing you don’t have to.

Own Your Peace.

— Marie