When I was in elementary school, a boy in my class decided he was in love with me.
Unfortunately, he had not yet mastered the art of subtle courtship. Instead of flowers or
kind words, he resorted to the least romantic method imaginable—he announced to
everyone that I was already his girlfriend. The rumor, absurd as it was, spread through
the school with the persistence of a winter flu, and before long I found myself the
unwilling heroine of a comedy no one had auditioned me for. My classmates teased me
with the confidence of professional comedians, and I, lacking any sharp retort or even
the courage to protest, chose the only defense strategy I could imagine: silence. That
silence, both awkward and suffocating, followed me like a stubborn shadow for the
next three years.
During the summer before middle school, silence still clung to me like an old habit I
hadn’t yet outgrown. That summer, I encountered something I had never imagined in
elementary school: Model United Nations. At first glance, it looked intimidating, with
rows of students in formal clothes, confident voices filling the room, debates unfolding
as if they were actual diplomats. Naturally, I wanted to retreat into the comfort of quiet
observation, the role I knew best. Yet MUN demanded participation. The rules required
me to raise my placard, deliver statements, and, most daunting of all, make my voice
heard. I began to understand that silence, which had once shielded me from
embarrassment, had also become a barrier, separating me from experience itself.
It was during one of those early MUN sessions, when I had barely dared to lift my
placard, that something unexpected happened. As I spoke, my words were hesitant at
first, but they gradually took shape, filling the space between the desks. I noticed heads
turning, eyes meeting mine, and for a fleeting, almost magical moment, I felt a curious
thrill—the kind of thrill that comes not from applause, but from the simple act of being
acknowledged. In that instant, I realized that silence had been more than a habit; it was
a kind of self-imposed exile. I thought of Simone Weil’s idea that attention is a rare
form of generosity: by speaking, I was not only claiming my space but also noticing
and connecting with others. Gaston Bachelard once said that the poetic image resists
inertia; in a way, each word I dared utter was a small act of resistance against the inertia
of my habitual silence.
Over the next three years of middle school life, MUN became both my playground and
my gym—a place where I exercised my voice and stretched my courage. I discovered
the thrill of making a point, the satisfaction of persuading someone, and even the quiet
joy of seeing an idea take root in a debate. I debated the ethical responsibilities of
nations in global climate policy, argued over fair trade regulations in critical minerals,
and navigated heated discussions on digital privacy and youth participation in
governance. I also stood up for women’s rights in developing countries, challenged
discriminatory policies, and advocated for refugees, highlighting the human stories
behind statistics. With every resolution drafted, every speech delivered, the once-daunting silence grew smaller, quieter, and less commanding. What surprised me,
though, was that silence itself did not vanish; rather, it began to play a different role.
The very years I had spent locked in it had sharpened my awareness of how precious
expression could be. In debates, silence also became a pause to listen more intently, to
weigh words before speaking, to give others the space I once craved. In that sense, the
distance between myself and silence was no longer purely an exile to escape from, but
a space I could cross deliberately—sometimes even use—to build connection.
In April of this year, during the second semester of my tenth grade, I stood before
delegates at the United Nations ECOSOC Youth Forum in New York, hardly
recognizing the girl who had endured three years of playground gossip in silence. As I
presented my proposals on youth engagement in global governance, I noticed delegates
from different countries responding with curiosity, some taking notes, others asking
questions that extended the discussion beyond my speech. Several participants
approached me afterward to discuss potential collaborations inspired by my suggestions.
In that moment, I realized that the distance between myself and silence had not just
diminished, but also, it had become a medium for connection and influence. Having
once lived in silence, I had learned how to recognize and respond to it in others—the
quiet student in the back row, the delegate hesitating to speak, the pause in a heated
negotiation. Silence no longer marked absence; it became a bridge, allowing me to
connect with others not only through speech but also through listening and
acknowledgement.
Silence, I saw, had never been purely an enemy or a friend, but a teacher. It revealed
the cost of inaction—the missed chances, the unspoken truths—and precisely through
that contrast, it illuminated the liberation inherent in expression. Without years of
silence, I might have taken voice for granted; only because I had been muted did
speaking feel so transformative. Crossing silence step by step, word by word, felt like
a journey toward self-realization. As Hans-Georg Gadamer suggests, understanding is
always a fusion of horizons: by speaking, listening, and even pausing in silence, I was
not merely communicating, but shaping a shared horizon with those around me,
discovering how my voice could touch others while also revealing myself.