Why Are You So Quiet?
By Colleen Edwards
“Why are you so quiet?"
I was asked this constantly as a child. I didn’t talk much, I preferred to listen. I loved hearing others' stories, I cared so much about what people had to say about themselves. In many ways that’s still true today, and it’s why I studied journalism.
I had this little pink rocking chair growing up. My grandma used to tell me that I would sit there and rock for a very long time and observe the world around me. I wouldn’t talk, I would just stare. I know how creepy this sounds, a little girl just rocking in a chair, staring, and not talking. But I was just lost in my own thoughts, just observing life as it was around me.
But this isn’t a story about listening. It’s a story about why that quiet girl struggled for so long to speak.
For years, I struggled with the question of who I was.
I am bisexual, but for most of my life, I avoided accepting it. I convinced myself it didn’t matter to others, but it mattered to me. It was something I buried, unsure how to deal with it, or whether I even needed to. My close friends knew and my family knew, and for the most part I didn’t care when I told new people. There are still a few people (close family included) that I haven’t told, because at this point… it almost feels unnecessary?
I never wanted to be defined by my sexuality, and I’ve received a lot of different reactions when I’ve come out to people. But the truth is, I’ve spent my twenties running from this part of myself. Now, at 29, I’m finally learning to embrace it.
My biggest demon is myself—isn’t yours? I know most people don’t care who you love or how you love. Most people are focused on their own lives. I know all of this, and I’m still worried about being judged by everyone. What would happen if I simply… stopped caring? I have always lived in a way that allows people and their stories to shape and mold my understanding of humanity.
Growing up, I had crushes on boys and ‘infatuations’ with girls. I wanted to impress everyone. I didn’t understand what any of those feelings meant until I got older.
My first real crush on a girl happened in high school—though I didn’t recognize it for what it was at the time. I was working at Menchies Frozen Yogurt, and one night, while we were closing up, it was my turn to mop the floors. She pulled out a ukulele and started singing. We sang together, voices echoing in the empty shop, and at one point, I looked up at her. She smiled and said, “I can’t focus when pretty girls stare at me.”
I felt something unfamiliar then. But I brushed it aside, not yet ready to understand what it meant.
My very first boyfriend came out to me as bi our senior year of high school, after we had been dating for three years, and I had those same biphobic feelings that I experience from others now. I thought I wouldn’t be enough for him, and I was terrified. I didn’t have the perspective I do now.
Ironic, right? The fears I once projected are the ones I’m so used to facing now.
I spent so much of my life in relationships where I wasn’t truly seen for who I was. I convinced myself that being accepted for being bi was enough, even if it meant staying with people who were harmful. The idea that being bisexual made me harder to love was a tough one to crack—it’s a messed-up mentality I internalized.
A few of my past relationships centered around the theme of ‘I will never be enough for you.’ My partners believed that because I was bisexual, I would never be happy choosing one or the other.
My first girlfriend was upset when I hugged my guy friends. Another was disgusted at the fact that I’d ever been with men. A boyfriend started off supportive, only to later confess he couldn’t handle the idea that I might leave him for a woman. And another girlfriend, who was at war with her own identity, directed that self-loathing at me. So many parts of me were ignored, weaponized, and just tolerated. I settled for less because I felt broken.
Each of these experiences chipped away at my sense of safety. My identity wasn’t the problem—other people’s fears and biases were. But I still carry that fear with me, and my own bias as well.
We shouldn’t have to settle for love that isn’t fulfilling or healthy just because it’s 'acceptable.’
There are so many things I was made to believe and it confused the hell out of me. I was lost for a little while.
My most recent relationship was the healthiest one I’ve ever had. I felt loved, seen, and safe. But, despite that, I left. Not because I didn’t love my partner, but because I realized I wasn’t in a place where I could fully love myself. I needed to step away, to heal, and to figure out who I am, independent of anyone else.
It was the hardest decision I’ve made, but it was necessary. I thought a lot of things would be different at this point in my life and I’m okay with the fact that they are not. I built a lot of walls up, and they are not anyone else's burden to break down. Saying goodbye to that love was so difficult, especially knowing I was about to head into a very rough patch.
The hardest love to leave is the one where you can’t give it your all, no matter how hard you try, because you’re not whole.
I spent a lot of this last year working a lot, trying to find my own sense of self and get it back. What does that even mean, to come back to yourself? (I’m still trying to figure it out, so let me know if you know.)
I needed to be alone to just…be. When I am broken, happy, sad, lost, whole, everything in between—I know I can be all those things with a person, but first I need to learn how to be all those things alone.
Sometimes we leave love because it reminds us of the most vulnerable parts of ourselves. I think I realized how much I had buried deep down inside, and that scared me, and I didn’t want to take my partner down with me. I couldn’t fully show up for myself or the relationship, and I despised that. I wanted to give it all or nothing—not a half-assed version of myself. I needed to be alone because I haven’t found a home within myself. Nobody can save you from yourself, and nobody should have to. I couldn’t let my partner give their all when I knew I couldn’t do the same.
We keep pieces of everyone within ourselves, especially those of who we love. I always want to be the person who loves more and cares more and feels more because that is who I am. I lost that and I need it back. I need it back for myself and for all the people that I love. I want to feel as much as I can on Earth and part of that means loving myself first.
I’ve spent most of my life chasing happiness, thinking it was something out of reach. Now I’m realizing happiness doesn’t come from feeling okay or finally getting to a point where you feel like you have it figured out. That’s an empty fantasy. It’s about embracing the uncomfortable periods, when you feel like you’re ‘in-between’ and don’t really know where to go next. It’s about recognizing that life is going to change and you either stay stuck or move along with it.
I have been in this weird, empty space for a few months now, and I’m not exactly sure I’m doing anything right. For the first time though, I’m sitting with it, letting it all flow through me. I keep getting reminded of my rocking chair, and my little self just staring watching the world go along.
I wrote an article three years ago about little endings and the meaning of saudade, and it’s weird how much those words still ring true to my life today. It’s shocking how important that word has always been in my life, and more so now than ever. We don’t have all the time. We don’t know when the last memories will be the last. Stop being so quiet, stop caring so much about what people think, and remember that you are all you have. You have to pick yourself and move forward and be okay with the choices you made.
The people that are meant for you will never get away. You are only as strong as the choices you make. Someday, I hope my choices make sense.
I don’t have to define who I am to anyone but myself, and I think that has been the hardest part of this journey for me. Knowing deep down, I still need to get comfortable with who I am. I spent years wanting to write this essay about ‘becoming myself’ but sometimes it really is just simple. I mean good god, this is basically the journal entry of a 29-year-old woman who has maybe overcomplicated her life a bit. I’ve learned to speak out and up when needed. I’m not that quiet anymore. I would say I’m actually a pretty confident human (outwardly) but obviously, I still have some work to do.
Because really, who cares? There are so many more important things in this world than who I love. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I am trying so hard to figure out why it matters to me so much.
Not everything is as heavy as it feels—not even who I love. Some things just aren’t that big of a deal. I’ve felt more than I ever have lately—sadder, happier, more relieved, afraid. But through it all, I can feel myself slowly, quietly putting the pieces back together.
The little girl who stayed silent out of fear of being seen…she can go. But her hopeful heart? That part of her can stay.
Colleen Edwards loves burritos, writing, and camping. Follow her on Instagram: @colleenedwards
