Let’s Play The Quiet Game And The Courage To Speak

It takes courage to speak even when faced with encouragement to be silent.

Growing up, whether in the car or at home, my mother often suggested, “Let’s play the quiet game,” to get us to stop talking or arguing. My father would sometimes ask me where my “off button” was, a playful way to encourage silence. In both cases, their tactics effectively quieted me. You might be familiar with phrases like “Children should be seen and not heard” or “Silence is golden.” These sayings don’t just hush a child’s voice—they subtly suggest that children aren’t important.

The phrase “silence is golden” haunted me throughout my childhood, especially after what happened with my neighbor. While adults often use it because they can’t tolerate noise, to a child, it sends the message that your voice doesn’t matter—feeding the shame some of us carry for years. Most damaging of all, it silences victims and leaves them feeling alone.

Looking back, I realize how deeply this idea of silence shaped my response to what happened. For years, I kept a secret, dismissing the actions of an adult who knew better. I convinced myself it was just a kiss. I was seven when my next-door neighbor, someone I saw as a grandfather figure, grabbed me and gave me an unwanted, uncomfortable kiss on the lips. Confused and unsettled, I went to a family member for help. Instead of comfort, I was left with the belief that I was somehow to blame—that my actions encouraged his behavior. Years later, while visiting my grandparents, another trusted adult did the same thing. This time, I stayed silent.

Years later, I began to understand what really happened to the wounded inner child I kept hidden. A professional named the experiences for me: molestation, sexual assault. Just hearing those words triggered waves of fear and shame. It took months of therapy and self-reflection before I could even say them aloud. Journaling helped me process the memories, and talking with trusted friends provided a lifeline when I felt most alone. I learned that healing isn’t a straight path—sometimes it meant forgiving, sometimes it meant simply surviving the day. The “quiet game” made everything harder, amplifying my self-doubt with questions like, “Who would believe me at seven or ten?” At the same time, I feared the consequences if my grandfathers had ever learned the truth.

Joshua 1:9 “Have I not commanded you?  Be strong and courageous.  Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

As I reflect on my journey and the power of breaking silence, I realize that speaking out is an act of courage in itself—a reclaiming of strength stolen by shame and secrecy. The process is neither easy nor linear, but each time we choose to share our truth, we chip away at the isolation that trauma builds. In doing so, we not only honor our own stories but also create space for others to step into the light, free from the weight of the “quiet game.” My hope is that by voicing my experiences, I can help others find the strength to break their silence, trusting that they are never alone and that their voices truly matter. God’s presence is a constant comfort, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, we are seen, loved, and never abandoned.

Can you find the courage and be strong to tell your story?  I want to encourage you to share your story with a safe person.  By sharing, shame cannot keep telling you to keep quiet because you don’t matter.