The Silence That Speaks

Giavona Slaton, 2nd Place Winner (post-secondary), Beyond the System Writing Contest

I was only ten when I first realized that words could hurt. Really hurt. My parents, trapped in a cycle of bitterness, would shout at each other in a way that made me feel like I was suffocating, like I couldn’t breathe because every word they said was a blow. They weren’t just angry; they were venomous. They would call each other names, not just insults but cruel observations about each other's bodies, their appearance, anything to make the other feel small. It was how they communicated. I learned, as a child, that words could tear someone down, could break them into pieces. There was no tenderness, no kindness in the way they spoke. Only cruelty.

I didn’t understand at the time, but I knew it wasn’t right. I also knew it was what I had to learn if I wanted to get by. At ten, I started copying what I saw. I repeated their words, their tone, hoping for some kind of reaction. The first time I tried it on a friend, the shock on their face hit me like a slap. They looked at me, confused, hurt, and I felt... nothing. I thought, perhaps if I tried harder, I’d get the same reaction my parents did with each other, something that would make them hear me. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the silence between us grew. It was like I had become a stranger to them, and they to me. I didn't know how to fix it, but I kept trying, making it worse each time.

It wasn’t long before I learned that the reaction I wanted, the one that would make me feel like I mattered, was never coming. No matter how loudly I shouted or how cruelly I spoke, it was never enough. Every time I tried to communicate, I felt more isolated, more invisible. It felt like I was shouting into a void, hoping for an echo, but getting only the stillness of emptiness in return. I didn’t know how to talk to anyone anymore. Words felt foreign. They didn’t work.

And so, I stopped talking. Completely. I became mute.

Six months of silence. Six months of walking around, surrounded by noise but never contributing to it. It was easier that way. No one could hurt me if I didn’t say anything. No one could reject me, or worse, twist my words into something ugly. Silence became my armor. In that silence, though, I began to feel like I didn’t exist. The world moved around me, but I was a ghost, slipping through the cracks unnoticed. There were no comforting voices, no hands reaching out. It was as though I was invisible to everyone, including my parents.

At home, things got worse. My parents became even more secretive, more distant. They locked me and my siblings in our rooms, not just with doors, but with locks from the outside. They didn’t want us to witness the chaos in their lives, the mess of their existence. But I could hear it. Their voices whispered behind the door, still filled with anger, still tainted with the same words that had once made me feel like I had no place in this world. I felt trapped, confined not just to my room but to a life I had no say in. My silence was the only way I knew how to protect myself, but it also made me feel caged.

And then, one day, something unexpected happened. It was during English class. I had already stopped participating, as I had for months. But she noticed, my teacher saw something in me that no one else did. She saw my silence, and rather than pushing me to speak, she began to offer me the gift of patience. She didn’t demand words from me. Instead, she gave me her time, her compassion. She understood that I wasn’t simply quiet; I was broken. She saw that I was hurting, and she didn’t rush to fix it. She just... sat with me.

After class, she would ask me to stay behind. She would sit with me and offer me books—books that told stories, that let me explore worlds where words were powerful and kind. She gently encouraged me to read aloud. At first, I stumbled over the words. I couldn’t say them right, and my speech was uneven, a jumble of broken sounds. But she didn’t judge me. She didn’t look at me with disappointment, like I had grown so used to seeing. Instead, she would smile, nod, and repeat the words with me until they didn’t feel like foreign things anymore.

Little by little, her belief in me became my belief in myself. I started to feel a spark again. The fire that had been extinguished by years of silence began to flicker. I could speak, and I was allowed to speak. Not with the same venom I had learned at home, but with words that could build, words that could create. She taught me that communication wasn’t just about speaking—it was about connection.

But it wasn’t just her help that was the only part of my journey. I had been born with drugs in my system, a consequence of my mother’s choices before I was even born. My body and mind had been affected, and it wasn’t until much later that it was noticed. The silence I had chosen to cope with my fractured home life only made things worse. My speech was delayed, my ability to express myself was fractured. The first few years of my life were spent in a haze, both from the drugs in my system and the emotional turmoil at home. I would later go through years of speech therapy, a process that felt endless at times, but necessary. The therapists tried to untangle the knots of language that had been tied in me, some by my own choice and others by circumstances beyond my control.

After six months of silence, I spoke again. It wasn’t a grand return. It was quiet, tentative at first, but it was real. And that was enough. I wasn’t invisible anymore. I wasn’t trapped. And I wasn’t alone.

Looking back, I can see how profound her impact was. She didn’t just teach me how to talk again; she taught me how to listen. She taught me that words were not weapons but bridges, and that silence, while it may protect, can also keep you isolated. She showed me that true communication comes from a place of understanding, not hurt, and that it takes time to heal the wounds that silence creates. She didn’t just help me find my voice—she gave me the tools to use it. And in the end, it was those words, those moments of true communication, that freed me.

 

Read more stories from the Beyond the System Writing Contest here.