Things I Know, Even When I'm Quiet: A Litany

You'll never catch me saying that I know something until I've applied it somehow and proven to myself that it's probably true. Before that, it's simply secondhand information –– likely valuable if it came from a trustworthy source, but not absolutely. 

And even once something makes it into my mental "I know this" file, I still don't necessarily shout it right out for the world to hear. Instead, I let these things settle into my gut and grow smooth, like rocks at the bottom of a riverbed. 

No one knows they're there, but they still serve a sort of quiet purpose. They're anchors that keep me grounded in a saner version of the world where I always know what's real, even if no one else around me does. Silence doesn't make those things any less true. 

I know when someone is trying to manage me with compliments. I know when they’re dancing a stilted jig around the perimeter of a truth they don’t want to articulate. I know when someone's surprised (and more than a little bothered) that I don't fit comfortably into whatever labeled box they've decided to place me in. 

I register these things before I smile and say something polite –– not because I feel polite, but because I know it's expected of me and need to buy time while I wait for the next conversational exit. 

I know what it feels like to walk into a room and read the people in it before a single word is said. The tone of the air, the undercurrents of tension and the way tension always smells like carrots. Perhaps even unspoken resentment. I used to think everyone did this –– figured out the lay of the land before deciding how to proceed by scanning the energy in question. But then I realized almost no one does, except other people who simply don't mention it. 

I also learned that some people hate that this is something I can (and will) do. They don't think they should have to pass a vibe check before I'll interact with them.

I know what burnout feels like, not just physically but spiritually — the ache of having too many people need things from you while you’re scraping the bottom of your own well. I know the hollow feeling that comes when you're doing something that should be heartfelt out of obligation instead of devotion. 

I know how long it takes to refill your inner well when you've poured out too much yet again. And I know the hopelessness that you feel when you're sure you'll never have a full well at your disposal ever again.

I know when someone thinks they know me better than I know myself, and I know how to let them just sit there in their embarrassing wrongness and be wrong. I know how to stop explaining (finally). I know when a wall is kinder than a door, even if it really did take me a long time to be able to tell the difference.

I know the weight of inherited stories and toxic narratives that don't belong to me. I know how they cling, whisper, and insistently try to dictate who you are before you’ve had a chance to decide for yourself. I absolutely know the courage and energy it takes to eventually rewrite them.

I know that not every scar should be hidden. Some are maps. Some shine and feel satisfyingly heavy in your hands like medals. Some are simply the price of wisdom you never asked to learn but wind up possessing anyway. I know what joy feels like in small, stubborn forms — the sun through my window, the rhythm of a new song that helps me remember that being human isn't always so bad. 

I know how to wait, but I'm also familiar with the uncomfortable juncture where waiting turns into hiding. I know when patience becomes self-abandonment, and I’m learning when to act instead. And most surely of all, I know how it feels to be both the teacher and the lesson, even though I never really wanted to be either. 

And I know in ways that don’t require validation that I'm here for a reason. That my voice matters, even when no one appears to be paying attention. That my art matters, even when it's not living anywhere that other people can see. That I still matter, even when I forget (which is way too often for my taste).

* Filed under the Feast of the Wandering Pen, where quiet truths find their voice.