The Silence is Violence Too

There’s a kind of violence we all recognize. The obvious kind, loud, clear, undeniable.

But there’s another kind. The kind that creeps into everyday moments. Subtle words. Quiet gestures. Things that may not look violent from the outside, but still cut deep. And in those moments, the support of someone who knows, can make all the difference.

Because they get it. They’ve felt that same burden, that same pain.

And yet, what hurts the most isn’t always the comment or the act itself; it’s when the person you thought was an ally chooses to downplay it, or tries to convince you it didn’t really happen or that you misunderstood.

That’s not nuance. That’s not keeping the peace. That’s protecting the comfort of the oppressor.

And in that moment, instead of feeling seen, I feel even more alone, because the person I expected to understand is the one who’s now gaslighting me.

And sure, they don't mean any harm. In fact, I know they don't. It’s often unconscious, even. And it's often about fear: fear of losing a connection, of making things awkward, of risking their place in privileged spaces. But in that effort to protect their access, my experience gets erased.

And maybe that’s what makes it so painful: when representation is used to protect oppression instead of confronting it.

And you are left alone. Trying to explain a pain that should never need explaining.

I’m writing this, not from a place of blame, but of recognition. I’ve done it too. Most of us have, at some point.

This isn’t about pointing fingers. It’s about naming a wound so we can stop passing it along. So we can start holding each other with more courage, more clarity, and more care.

This article is part of the series: "What I Feel. What I Don’t Say. What I Write."