Leaving the Safe Harbor of Silence

I remember standing in the tiny cottage kitchen with the light orange cabinets that my grandmother loved from the moment she first peered through the windows. I remember the sunny day and the breeze and the lake outside. And I remember feeling deathly afraid.

That little cottage was usually one of my safe places, a soul-nourishing space in which the stones and the soil and the deep, cold lake all spoke to the deepest parts of me, filling in the parched places, nourishing me from head to toe.

But on this day, as I looked out towards the sunporch, it did not feel safe.

I felt somewhat protected by the U-shaped arrangement of the tiny kitchen that surrounded me—fridge, sink, counter, stove, counter, but I did not want to venture out to take the twenty or so odd steps it would require to reach my father, who was lying on the top bunk of the sunporch – reading, or sleeping, or staring out the window, unaware of my fear. 

The thing is, if you met him, you would tell me that my father isn’t that scary, not scary at all, actually—a bit stern at times, with strong opinions about right and wrong. But trustworthy and loving, with a boyish enjoyment of outdoor adventures that's contagious.

Many times in my childhood, he had personified safety for me. But now I was a young woman with a child of my own, and there was something I needed to say to him, something I didn’t think he’d like to hear.

Isn’t it odd how scary a few words can be?

The funny thing is, I don’t even remember what I needed to say. But I remember the fear, the incredible terror, I felt at the thought of speaking my truth.

Not sharing who I really was or what I really thought was my safe harbor. But lately, something bigger has been calling me out into the unknown dangers of the vast expanse of the seas.

I am not a natural adventurer. At least I didn’t think I was then.

So, if you’re hiding, like I was then. I want you to know that I understand how terrifying it can feel to contemplate speaking your truth out loud to someone who really matters to you, someone who is not likely to agree with or appreciate your truth, who perhaps might even judge you as wrong, or bad, not worth fighting for, or even destined for hell.

When we were young children, that kind of rejection felt like death to our nervous systems — because our animal bodies knew we were dependent on our caretakers for survival.

But I want to remind you that you are not that child anymore.

It’s true that when you speak your truth, your loved ones may not understand. Perhaps, the conversation will create a chasm between you that can never be crossed. Perhaps you think you will not survive the storm.

I know what it feels like to be so afraid that you think you cannot possibly speak that which is true.

But I also know that it’s worth the risk.

Because while I remember the terror of that moment, and many others when I have risked speaking words that I feared would lead to rejection, I also remember the heavy darkness of depression that arrived regularly in my life for decades when I made a habit of silence.

As I see it now, that depression was a well-disguised harbinger of light, sent to help me see my way out of the Safe Harbor of Silence into the Seas of Living Life.

At that moment, as I walked those steps across the wide expanse of the tiny cottage, I was pushing just a few feet away from shore.

But those steps did not feel tiny to me. And your step is not tiny for you.

Give yourself credit for your incredible courage. Hold close to the part of you that is afraid; give it a safe space in your heart. Make the step small so it doesn’t overwhelm your whole system. Get the support you need (maybe from me?) and then let the courageous, competent one in you lead you forward.

Feel the freedom of the open seas. Find your voice so you can speak up for others, too, not just for yourself.

Here’s to thriving, and equity, courage and compassion,

Deb