For most of my adult life, I have felt alone among a sea of people, and I have been afraid to speak my truth.

It is still something I struggle with on a daily basis, because:  I don’t feel that I have the right to take up space; I feel that by raising my voice in certain ways, I will be labeled as disrespectful; I feel like I should know my place; I feel like I have nothing valuable to contribute; I feel like I am an imposter; I feel like I am wrong; I feel like when I speak, no one will understand or hear me.

Today, a close friend and colleague confronted me on two recent incidents in which I asserted myself strongly.  My colleague expressed bewilderment, asked me if I would treat others in the same way, asked if there was something wrong in my life that was coming out in our relationship.  And while I meant no disrespect in my assertions, I meant to assert myself in what I thought was a safe space.

Now, I am not certain.

I explained my choices, apologized from my tone.  We are likely to move forward, and I am less likely to challenge my colleague.  It is much easier to be silent than to be unheard or misinterpreted.  I know my friend cares deeply for me and that the questions posed were out of genuine concern, but I also know myself and that I will not be free to speak my truth in the same way.

I mourn this loss of a safe space to assert my voice because they are rare, although I am starting to build more community.  I suppose that asserting my voice is about taking the risks that who I am will be less accepted than who people imagine me to be when I am silent.  I suppose that I will disappoint some people and hurt others, like I did with my friend.  I suppose that I will have to negotiate how to tone police myself, even if it means not being heard, because these are not the spaces where I can truly be heard.

That makes me sad.

I am committed to learning to assert my voice in powerful ways, but I am also tired of having so few places in which I feel safe.  I know that asserting one’s voice comes with consequences, and that those consequences that I experience are rarely (if ever) as dire as those that others face. I know this, but it does not make these situations easier for me. I know this is the work, this is part of my struggle.  Particularly as a public academic and as an educator committed to the work of justice, that is the work and that is my struggle.

But today, I am tired, and just wish that I would be accorded the same benefit of the doubt that I give others.  Today, I wish that those I care so deeply for might see me as my best self rather than assuming my worst, that they might understand the work I am doing and how hard I am working, and that they might let me be my imperfect self without judgment.

I must get back to that work now, but not without saying something.  It is hard to speak uncomfortable truths, but even harder to be silent.

The struggle is real. It is ongoing.  It is ever-present.