There’s a song I’ve always come back to whenever I felt like there was something I needed to say—Brave by Sara Bareilles.
It’s a song about courage, about refusing to hold things in.

And for the longest time, I took it at face value.

As someone who isn’t usually loud about his needs and wants, I played it on repeat, hoping its message would sink in. That if I just found the right words, the right moment, the right way to say it—maybe everything would change.

But is it really that simple?

The song makes speaking up sound easy, but it doesn’t warn about reckless expression.
It glorifies the power of voice but never questions whether silence can hold just as much strength.
It frames courage as saying something—but what about the moments when restraint is braver?

The Cost of Every Word (and Every Silence)

Sometimes, we glorify expression—“speak your truth,” “say what’s on your mind”—as if words alone set us free.
But not all words liberate. Some, spoken at the wrong time, to the wrong people, bind us more than silence ever could.

A thought overshared. A feeling laid bare. A truth exposed before it’s ready.

We trade comfort for tension.
Distance for connection.
The security of being unseen for the vulnerability of being known.

And yet, other times, we glorify silence—“stay mysterious,” “not everything needs to be said”—as if restraint is wisdom.
But silence doesn’t always preserve peace. Sometimes, it festers. It corrodes. It leaves things unresolved.

Every time we hold something in, we make a trade too, but in the opposite direction:
A thought left unsaid. A feeling shoved aside. A truth swallowed before it ever reaches the surface.

We trade clarity for confusion.
Connection for distance.
Relief for a burden that only grows heavier with time.

But the real question isn’t just which trade we make—it’s why we make it in the first place?

Conditioned to Speak (or Stay Silent)

Before we ever decide to speak or stay silent, we are conditioned to believe which one will protect us.

Some of us are taught that silence is survival. That withholding our thoughts makes us stronger. That our words can be used against us, so we learn to keep them locked away.

I didn’t always realize I had been conditioned into silence. It happened in layers, through words disguised as advice—“don’t overreact,” “it’s not a big deal,” “be the bigger person.”
It happened through expectations—being the reliable one, the responsible one, the one who absorbs, who endures, who carries without complaint.

And so, silence became my default. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I believed speaking would cost me more than staying quiet.

Over time, the things I tried to ignore found their way to the surface, often in ways I didn’t expect. Sudden bursts of anger—rare, but intense. A gnawing unease, the kind that settles in your stomach and stays when you feel unheard or misunderstood. Even the relationships I built seemed to reflect my own habit of pushing things aside, as if I attracted people who reflect my own dismissal to myself.

But not everyone is conditioned into silence.

Some are raised in environments where speaking loudly is the only way to be heard. They are taught that dominance wins. That bluntness is power. That the louder they are, the more authority they command.

To them, silence isn’t survival—it’s submission. They don’t filter their words because filtering means weakness. They don’t hesitate before speaking because hesitation means losing control.

And so, just as some of us are conditioned to bite our tongues, others are conditioned to wield their voices like weapons.

But neither extreme is true power.

When Words Fail, (and So Does Silence)

In that context, a speaker on a podcast used an interesting analogy:

“Imagine you’re in a car, and the driver in front of you starts reversing. You see they’re about to hit you. What do you do?”

If you stay silent, hoping they’ll notice on their own, that’s a problem.
If you lay on the horn excessively, that’s a problem too—you make so much noise that your warning gets drowned out, dismissed as background chaos. And yes, that’s a problem too.

Some situations demand a voice. In those moments, silence doesn’t keep the peace. And making too much noise only buries the core message.

But how often do we hesitate to express ourselves?

Trading clarity for comfort, convincing ourselves it’s not that bad.
Trading action for doubt, fearing we might be seen as ‘overreacting.’
Trading time for inaction, waiting, hoping the situation will correct itself—until it doesn’t.

Some silences aren’t just passive. They’re invitations—open doors for someone to overstep, to assume we’ll tolerate, to push a little further than they should.

But some people don’t hesitate at all. They don’t second-guess whether to speak—they default to noise, to interruption, to making their presence known at any cost.

They trade reflection for reaction, speaking before the weight of their words settles in.
They trade pause for impulsiveness, filling the space just to be heard.
They trade understanding for control, believing volume equals power.

And just as silence can be an invitation, so can unchecked speech. It opens the door for chaos, for misinterpretation, for voices to clash rather than connect.

The Price of Speaking (and of Staying Silent)

Speaking can be uncomfortable. It stirs conflict, invites resistance, and makes us vulnerable to being misunderstood.

But who said silence isn’t?

The weight of being unheard—of holding back what should be said—festers inside us far more than the words ever could.

Bravery isn’t just in speaking up. It’s in making the choice to face tension rather than run from it.
Sometimes, you have to signal. You have to give that honk. And if necessary, escalate.

Tension might follow. But the real power—the real bravery—isn’t in escaping it. It’s in learning to sit with it, to let it exist without backing down.

Bravery is in knowing when to bear the discomfort of speaking—and when to bear the discomfort of restraint.

Tension is a price worth paying—it needs to be in the air.

We often avoid tension, fearing discomfort. But discomfort is the space where real change happens.
It’s where boundaries are set. Where lines are drawn. Where shifts occur.

And this is where bravery demands a trade.

The trade of short-term discomfort for long-term resolution.
The trade of surface-level peace for deeper, necessary confrontation.
The trade of avoidance for self-respect.

Letting tension sit in the air is uncomfortable, but it’s a price worth paying.

Because what’s the alternative?

Letting everything crash because we were too afraid to disturb the silence?

When Silence Speaks, (and Words Mean Nothing)

But what happens when you do speak—when you make yourself heard—and it still isn’t enough?

You honk.
You signal.
You make yourself impossible to ignore.

And yet—they keep going.

Some of us honk, signal, repeat our warnings—again and again—only to be met with more of the same.
Some of us lay out our boundaries so clearly they can’t be missed—only to have them ignored anyway.
Some of us ask outright, boldly, directly—only to be met with lies, misdirection, and silence.

And that’s where we fall into the other trap.

We convince ourselves that if we just say it one more time, in a better way, in a way they can’t ignore, they’ll finally get it.

That if we just explain it clearly enough, patiently enough, rationally enough—
Surely, this time, they’ll hear us.
Surely, this time, they’ll stop.

But here’s the thing:

The fool isn’t always the one who refuses to listen.
Sometimes, the fool is the one who keeps talking.

Because as much as silence can be cowardice in disguise—
Sometimes, so is over-explaining.

So what do you do?

You could keep honking, keep pleading, keep convincing yourself that if you just explain it the right way, they’ll finally understand.

Or you could wake the hell up and see it for what it is.

Some roads lead nowhere.

Some conversations aren’t miscommunications—they’re deliberate manipulations.

In those conversations:

We aren’t misunderstood.
We are heard loud and clear.
They just don’t care enough to stop.

And the loudest thing you can do—the most undeniable, irreversible statement you can make—

Is to turn the wheel, press the gas, and disappear from a road that was never meant to lead anywhere.

Because at some point, you realize—this isn’t an accident.
It’s a choice to ignore.
A deliberate decision to pretend they didn’t hear.

And that’s when silence stops being restraint.

That’s when silence becomes a decision.

A decision not to waste another breath explaining what should have been obvious.
A decision not to beg someone to stop reversing when they were always going to keep moving the way they wanted—wrapped in just enough of what you asked for to keep you reaching.

And by the time they notice you’re gone?

You’ll be miles away,
without a single word left to waste.

Miles away with the ones who don’t make you honk.
The ones who don’t need the noise.
The ones who hear your silence before you even speak.
In cues, in pauses, in the spaces between words.

The ones who don’t need to be signaled.
They just know.

Because in the end, bravery is never about being loud.
It’s about knowing where to place your voice, and at what volume.