{{#invoke:MediaWiki|page|title=Speaking Truths, Not Just Words|content= There's a before and after. Before, I was the human version of a beige sweater—comfortable, invisible, and utterly unremarkable. My anxiety wore me like a second skin, whispering that speaking up would either make me a target or a bore. So I nodded along, smiled politely, and let my actual thoughts dissolve into the beige void. My depression? It just sat there, happy to keep me quiet. "Why rock the boat," it sighed, "when the water’s already cold?"
Then came the meeting. My boss, a man who’d never met a silence he couldn’t fill, leaned across the table. "Sheila, what’s your take on the client’s feedback?" I froze. My throat tightened like a fist. Just say "I don’t know," my anxiety urged. Or "Whatever you think, boss." But something cracked. Maybe it was the way my coffee cup trembled, or the sheer exhaustion of pretending I wasn’t drowning. I took a breath that felt like swallowing glass and said, "Actually, I think the feedback misses the mark because [my point]. I’ve seen this pattern before." Silence. Then, "Huh. That’s… actually really good."
Here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud: silence isn’t safety—it’s surrender. I’d spent years believing my truth was too messy, too me to share. But in that moment, I realized my silence wasn’t protecting anyone. It was just me, alone in a room full of people, holding my breath.
Anyway, that’s my trauma response—saying the thing I’ve been too scared to say, then immediately wondering if I just made a fool of myself. But this time? No panic. Just… relief. Like finally taking off a shoe that’s been pinching for years.
What shifted? I stopped apologizing for my existence. I started saying "I’m anxious" instead of "I’m fine." I told my therapist, "I need to talk about this now," not "Maybe later." My comedy got sharper, too—because the jokes about my anxiety weren’t just about it anymore. They were from it. I stopped hiding in the beige.
Now? I’m the person who says "I’m struggling" like it’s a normal Tuesday. And you know what? People lean in. They say, "Me too." The room doesn’t collapse. The world doesn’t end. It just… breathes.
I used to think speaking truth meant being loud. Now I know it means being real. And honestly? It’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel like I’m actually here.
— Sheila Bishop, laughing so I don't cry}}