The Weight of Silence

We were on our usual video call, sharing the afterglow of another holiday season, as Sister-Friends do. Across the digital divide, she picked up an envelope from her father.

She opened it casually, expecting the usual formalities, but then she stopped. She began to read the handwritten ink on the inside:

“I am so proud of the woman you have become. Continue in all that you do.”

Silence followed. The kind of silence that has weight. The kind of silence that rings in your ears.

The money inside the card was irrelevant. It was just paper. The words, however, were gold. They were the message she had been waiting a lifetime to hear. As her Sister-Friend, I searched my heart for the right and most supportive response, but I found myself standing at a locked door with no key.

Then, the realization hit me like a physical blow. I have never heard those words either!

Here we were. Two grown women. Educated, successful, and sovereign. Yet we were staring at those simple sentences as if they were an ancient script we had never been taught to read.

I felt a surge of joy for her, but beneath it, a mourning for the years spent in the desert of “not enough.” I wept for the seven-year-old version of her who needed that fuel decades ago. I wept for the version of me who is still waiting by the mailbox of her mind.

I felt the sting of the fantasy self. Who would I be if I had grown up knowing I was doing a good job? How much higher would I have flown if I were not constantly checking the wind for a nod of approval? How much energy have we spent building monuments to our own worth, just so someone would finally notice?

To the fathers, the husbands, and the men who lead. The world is a brutal, relentless place. It is cold and demanding. If you are proud of the woman standing next to you, say it. If you are proud of the daughter watching your every move, say it now. Do not make them wait until their hair is grey to know they are enough. Words are free. Silence is expensive. It costs us years of peace.

We eventually laughed through the knots in our throats, but we rejoiced with caution. I have learned a hard, glittering truth in this season of my life. I have learned to be my own witness. Freedom is realizing that the validation of a parent is a gift, but your own validation is a requirement.

I am no longer waiting for a letter that may never arrive. I have written it to myself. I have signed it with my own soul. I am proud of the woman I have become. I am proud of the girl who survived long enough to become her.

And that, Beloved Souls, is the ultimate liberty.

I took one step closer to my version of Freedom today.

What does Freedom look like for you?