Speaking Up

Look, I’m no expert on speaking up. Used to think it meant yelling louder than everyone else, stomping into a room like I owned it. Like when my wife was sick, I’d stand up at the hospital meetings, voice tight, demanding answers. “She needs more pain meds now,” I’d say, fists clenched. Thought that was how you got things done. That was the only way.

Then my youngest, Maya, started coming home quiet. Not her usual self. Just staring at her math book. I asked, “What’s wrong?” She shrugged. “Nothing.” I pushed. “Tell me.” She just shook her head. I called the school, demanded a meeting. Sat there, voice loud, explaining how her teacher wasn’t listening, how I was the one who had to speak up for her. The principal nodded, said they’d “address it.”

But Maya didn’t get better. She got quieter. One night, she finally broke down. “They just laugh at me,” she whispered. “I tried to tell them, but I got scared. You yelled at the school, and now they know I’m the quiet one.” That hit me like a live wire. I’d been so busy being loud, I’d made her feel smaller. I’d made her feel like her voice wasn’t worth anything unless I shouted it for her.

Here’s what I figured out: Speaking up isn’t about volume. It’s about showing up. Not for the room, but for the person who’s scared to speak. It’s sitting down with Maya after school, not demanding answers from the teacher, but asking her, “What do you need?” It’s listening when she says, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and just being there anyway. It’s realizing the loudest thing you can do is be quiet enough to hear someone else.

You just do the next thing. Not the big, loud thing. The quiet one. The one that says, “I see you.” That’s the hard truth. It’s not about being heard. It’s about making sure someone else feels heard.

— Jimmy Hawkins, just a dad figuring it out