When Silence Breaks: The Side Of the Story YOU Could Change

Let’s stop pretending.

Let’s stop acting like we don’t see it, hear it, feel it.

There’s a conversation that needs to be had—and whether or not it makes folks uncomfortable, I’m dragging it to the table. Because what I’m about to say? It’s real. It’s heavy. And it could’ve cost me everything.

We’ve got to stop brushing off the quiet cries.

When someone finds the courage to say, “I’m hurting,”—believe them.

Don’t hit them with “you’ll be alright.”

Don’t tell them “you’re strong.”

Don’t hand them a Bible verse and then disappear.

Because when you downplay someone’s pain, you do two things:

1. You make them regret ever speaking up in the first place.

2. And you push them further down into the dark they were fighting their way out of.

And here’s the thing: the “ask” won’t always be loud.

Sometimes it’s a letter.

A poem.

A post that sounds too heavy.

A song they send you at 1AM.

A meme that feels way too close to the chest.

That might be the moment they’re trying to say, “I’m not okay.”

You gotta listen with more than your ears.

I know, because that was me.

I’ve always used writing to survive.

In high school, I was falling apart in real time—but nobody really saw me.

Home was loud. School was heavy. My mental health was in the gutter.

I wrote about it—not just poems, but letters.

Real cries for help.

I slipped those letters to people I trusted—people I thought were safe.

You know what happened?

Those letters ended up in the hands of an administrator…

who shared them.

With students. With my peers.

My pain became gossip.

My vulnerability got labeled “attention-seeking.”

And just like that, I shut down.

Trust shattered.

Walls up.

And that weight? It got heavier.

Because now I wasn’t just sad—I was embarrassed for being honest.

And still… I came to school.

Still went to class.

Still showed up with the storm sitting right behind my eyes.

There was one person, though.

One teacher. One light.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t dismiss.

She sat with me.

Asked about home. Broke down my words. Reminded me my feelings were real.

Valid. Worth hearing.

She poured into me when everybody else was pulling from me.

Her name was Mrs. Graves.

She doesn’t even know it…

but she saved my life.

Because back then?

The thoughts I was having weren’t just sad ones.

They were dark. Dangerous. Final.

And I didn’t feel safe anywhere—not at home, not at school, not in my own mind.

But her classroom became my sanctuary.

Not because it was quiet—but because I was seen.

So here I am… years later… still writing.

Still trying to make sure nobody else drowns in silence the way I almost did.

⸻

To Mrs. Graves—thank you.

You gave me breath when the world tried to suffocate me.

You reminded me that my voice mattered, even when I could barely use it.

Because of you, I’m still here.

And that’s not an exaggeration—that’s the truth.

⸻

Now let me ask you:

What side of the story will you be on?

The side that watched it happen?

Or the side that stepped in before it was too late?

Because the way someone asks for help might not look the way you expect.

But it still matters.

And it still counts.

Whatever way they come forward should always be enough.

Don’t wait until someone’s gone to decide they mattered.

~Kae Jaye~