Danielle C. Baker

Transcript

Shh. Be quiet. Not now. Stop talking. Just be quiet. As a little girl, I was often told that my voice was too much, that I was too much, that my hair was too much. The adults around me could barely deal with their chaos. Having curious little me around was just too much. Silence became my normal. Not just my normal, it became my safe space. And that is not life for a child. Silence has a cost. It was only as an adult that I realized the price I paid for my safe silence.

I have a fear of public speaking. I'm not just nervous or anxious. I am terrified. The minute I step on stage, my body starts shaking. My voice trembles. I forget how to breathe and my mouth dries up like I've eaten an entire box of soda crackers. Now, coming from someone who regularly chokes on her own saliva, that last one's impressive. My body physically rejects the idea of being seen and heard. And for the longest time, I didn't give it much thought.

But I eventually had to ask myself, why does using my voice feel like a threat? Silence has a cost. It doesn't just create adults who fear public speaking. It creates perfectionists, people pleasers, pushovers. It was only when I started working with children that the full price I paid for my silence really struck me. I see myself in so many of them. When a child is forced to be quiet, their nonverbal starts to scream and their silence speaks my language. and it's deafening.

One day there was a little boy I'm going to call Sammy ran up to me screaming at recess. He was frustrated and hurt because his friends weren't playing fair. He was so angry that his words were coming out all tangled up. So I let him spew till he was done and then we worked it all out. A coworker of mine came up to me right after and said, "I can't believe you let that boy talk to you like that. So disrespectful."

Now, normally I would have ignored a comment like that. But something snapped in me that day, and I spoke up for the first time in my life. Really, Jenny? It took us two years to get Sammy to talk, and now you're telling me I'm going to have to shut him up? No, I'm not going to tell him to be quiet. No, I'm not going to teach him that silence is how you respect adults. And I'm not going to be the one who's going to bury his voice now that he's finally found it.

That snowball effect changed everything in me. I started advocating for the quiet ones, the overlooked ones, the ones who were told to sit still and sh. Watching these little ones stand taller, speak louder, and even yell when it's needed still feels amazing. I get to see the next generation healing when we set healthy boundaries. They learn to do the same when we speak up. They learn that their voice matters. They are writing stronger stories every day. And they're teaching me how to rewrite mine.

There are days that I want to hide behind my fate, my safe and familiar no like right now. But instead, I'm here on this stage, still terrified, still shaking, no saliva in sight, but I'm here determined to break the cost of my silence over and over and over. So my question is, do you have a story you're still holding on to just to be safe? One that you have on lockdown for so long that you don't even feel it weighing you down anymore.

Release it. Your story has the power to heal, but only if you have the courage to share it. Thank you.

Transcript generated from the recording and lightly cleaned. Some names and wording may differ from the spoken speech.