"Some storms don't roar.
Some arrive with soft eyes and strong bones."
Dear Diary,
People always notice the loud ones first.
The ones who take up space with their voices.
The ones who shout their dreams into the sky,
who answer before the question finishes forming.
And then there's me.
Quiet.
Still.
Always thinking before I speak — sometimes thinking too long and never speaking at all.
And they mistake it.
They say I'm shy.
Timid.
Afraid.
They say I need to "speak up," "be bold," "fight louder."
But what they don't know is…
I've been fighting all along.
Just differently.
You see, Diary, I've learned to wage silent wars.
To hold my feelings with both hands and breathe through storms without making a sound.
I'm quiet because I listen.
Because I observe.
Because the world is so loud already —
and sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is not add more noise.
I'm not weak.
I'm watching.
I'm reading between the lines.
I'm collecting thoughts like seashells, sorting them by color and texture before I offer one out loud.
And yes, it takes me time.
To speak.
To trust.
To open.
But when I do, my words don't shake — they land.
I've learned that silence can be a sanctuary, not a cage.
That softness doesn't mean surrender.
That there's strength in the pause — in choosing when and how to be heard.
Sometimes my silence is protection.
Sometimes it's peace.
Sometimes it's power.
I don't need to raise my voice to raise a world.
And if they look closely — really closely —
they'll see how my quiet carries weight.
Because not all strength stomps.
Some strength tiptoes.
Some strength whispers.
Some strength simply chooses not to perform for the noise.
So the next time they call me quiet like it's a curse,
I'll just smile.
Because they don't know the mountains I've moved inside myself without making a sound.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🌙🦋