“I am like a rusty gate. Even if you find the key, you’ll have to work hard to open me up to find out what secrets are behind my door.” ~ 10-year-old me
When I was 10, my 5th grade teacher had our class write a poem. She wanted it to be titled “I Am.” We had the freedom to write whatever we wanted as long as each sentence started with “I Am.” I was excited to write this poem—to share my words on paper with my favorite teacher and let her know from my heart who I was. I loved writing and wanted to get it just right, erasing, writing, and erasing my words again. Then and now, words float around my head like butterflies, and when I want to share them, I have to capture them and arrange them just so.
A few days later, she asked me to read my poem to my class, and I flushed with embarrassment. The 10-year-old me was no different from who I am today: reserved to a fault. An introvert. And painfully shy. I remembered shuffling to the front of the classroom, never once looking at my classmates because that would have been too painful. As I read my poem, my eyes never left my paper. When I finished, I looked up and saw that Mrs. Ripley had tears in her eyes. And I knew—I knew—she understood my words. She understood me.
It was then, at 10 years old, I was given the first glimpse of my voice. But just as I noticed her tears of understanding, I heard a snicker from a classmate. And then a laugh from another while she teased: “A rusty gate? I don’t get it! Why would you call yourself a rusty gate?” And then more laughter.
At that moment, I heard something inside me yell:
And so I did.
I retreated back inside myself and forgot all about Mrs. Ripley’s tears as she shushed the class and looked at me apologetically. And I turned away from writing. I wouldn’t write like that again for a very long time.
I’m an observer. A listener. So soft-spoken that when I finally do decide to speak, people often don’t even hear my words. And although I’d like to repeat myself, I lose my courage to say it louder because that feels like shouting to my ears.
For a long time, I thought because of my quiet ways, it meant I had nothing of value to share. But what Mrs. Ripley’s tears taught me so many years ago was that I did. I do.
I have a voice.
It took what felt like a lifetime to find it. I started writing again after I became a mother, sharing pieces of my heart with the world. No longer able to contain those words that were like butterflies—catch and release. When I finally found my voice with writing, it felt like I was shouting but in a way that was comfortable for me. And when people would write back telling me they felt similarly, it was the most magical feeling of all—being heard and understood and connecting with people in a way I couldn’t in person with my wallflower ways.
I will never be the social butterfly. Instead, I’m the quiet butterfly catcher.
Do you have a story to share with Quiet Revolution? Click here to view further information and submit your story—we’d love to hear from you.