Radio silence is a military term in which all radio stations in an area are asked to stop transmitting for safety or security reasons. It was a tactic used by the Japanese forces while sneak-attacking Pearl Harbor.
I’ve been pretty silent here.
It’s not for a lack of creating. I journal, write poetry, and process my healing through art daily. However, this period of divorce feels a lot like my own personal Pearl Harbor, and I’ve needed this stretch of silence to keep myself protected and reflective.
Every sentence feels like it could be used as ammunition, as a bombshell that could backfire on me in court.
The poems I post on TikTok are heavily measured – could this be used against me? Clicking “post” feels like pulling a trigger.
My time spent in a mental health hospital back in April has me feeling as though I’m moving through this world with a giant red target painted on my back. I carry the weight of this stigma like a heavy lead vest. It stalks me.
So yes, I’ve been quiet. And it’s not for a lack of activity in my life; trust me, there’s been a lot. I could write a novel about it, and maybe someday I will.
But after healing messily and loudly for so long, my gut is telling me it’s time to find a bulletproof vest and hunker down. My original dream was to “get discovered” as a writer, but it’s not my year for that.
I dream now only of healing and providing a loving home for me and my babies, of protecting them from the fallout.
My words are weapons, and for now, I need to keep them in my own hands. I’ll give them as gifts to intimate audiences or keep them as a treasure just for me.
I don’t owe the world my pain or my story, at least not while I’m actively living it.
I seek comfort and safety, and I’m saving my brave for another day.
This silence is not compliance, not the waving of a white flag. Despite everything I’ve been through, I’m still standing, still fighting, and I refuse to surrender.
Struggle Bus Confessions 