There Are Things I’ll Never Say Out Loud

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Author: Ramona Magyih | Psychologist

Some things stay buried because saying them out loud would make them real. This is about the quiet stuff we carry, the things we don’t talk about, not because it’s small, but because it’s too darn big. The kind of truth that could undo you if you ever gave it words.

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Table of contents

The things I keep inside, not because they don’t matter.

There are things I carry in silence because I know if I said them out loud, they’d grow teeth. They’d take shape and color and weight. They’d get up from the corners of my mind and sit across from me like something I’d have to finally deal with. And I don’t know if I could survive that.

There are truths that live inside me like dormant volcanoes. Not quite asleep. Just… quiet enough to function.
And if I let them erupt, if I let them pour out of my mouth into the air between me and someone else, I’m scared the ash would suffocate everything good I’ve built around me.

So I don’t say them. I swallow them. Bite down on the words when they crawl up my throat at 2 AM. Pretend I’ve made peace with them. Call it strength. Call it self-control. Call it timing.

But it’s not strength.

It’s fear. And maybe wisdom, too.

Some truths aren’t ready to be held in the open.

Some truths might not be truths at all, just pain trying to organize itself into language. I’ve almost said them before. Almost texted. Almost wrote them down. Almost confessed.

But the moment always passed. And maybe that’s a kind of mercy. Because once you say it,
“I don’t think I was ever really wanted.”
“I’m scared I’ll always be alone, even when I’m loved.”
“I don’t think I know how to be okay.”
Once that kind of sentence enters the world, it’s real.

And if it’s real, you can’t un-hear it. You can’t tuck it back inside the drawer it came from. You can’t pretend it was just a bad day or a passing thought.

There’s a kind of safety in the unspoken.

A fragile, exhausting safety. Because the words might be dangerous, but the silence costs something too.
It costs me sleep.
It costs me ease.
It costs me the chance to be truly seen, not the curated, digestible version, but the full, trembling truth.

Still, I don’t say them. Not because they’re not true. But because I haven’t decided if I want them to be.
Because if I say them, someone might believe me.
Or worse... they might not.

And I don’t know which would hurt more. So I live with the unsaid, like roommates I barely make eye contact with. I step around them. I let them haunt me gently. I write around them, not through them.

And I tell myself maybe one day.

Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to let them out. Or soft enough to hold them when they come.

But today isn’t that day. And for now, the silence feels safer than the truth.

Just continue reading the next journal page, because you might see a bit of yourself in what I've written.

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