I come from loud people — boisterous, emotive, vibrating humans.
They wear their passions and love and hearts on their sleeves.
It’s beautiful.
I could not be more different.
Yesterday, I called my dad. "Hey girl," he bellowed into the phone. I envisioned his mouth stretched wide to accommodate his widow-rattling voice.
"Fuck, are we doing this again?" I cried to myself in exasperation. "Yep, he's going to scream into the phone instead of turning off the TV."
"Why is it always so loud?" I asked in annoyance, struggling to hear him over the clamor.
"It's really not," he insisted obliviously, his voice hitting a pitch that made my great-grandmother’s tableware shudder.
These are the moments when I most doubt our blood relation. But we have the same face…
In my family, decibels correlate with validity, with power. The louder you are, the more attention you command.
I’ve always side-eyed attention. I like being the oddball, the wallflower, the tranquil one amidst a whirlwind of noise. While the rest of my relatives holler and carry on like residents of a medieval jousting arena, I recline and observe, only occasionally sharing my thoughts.
In my silence, I find peace. And in an increasingly in-your-face world, I think the reserved are underrated. We are a breed often misunderstood, our modest murmurs overshadowed by society's more raucous forces. But make no mistake, in our stillness lies strength.
We simply command a different kind of presence. We are often viewed as impassive, but we sway, we bend, we uproot. We feel things just as fervently as our counterparts. But we most express ourselves through lulls, silences that give weight and nuance to our meager declarations.
And through my familial contrast, I’ve learned that there is poetry in thoughtful pauses, in making space. That silence fosters observation, listening, and intentional restraint.
It can be sublime, euphoric even, to hear nothing.
And yet, for all my defense of silence's understated strength, I can't help but admire the energy of my kin. There's an enlivening spirit to their unstoppable loudness that brings color and verve to this increasingly bleak world.
As much as I cherish soft, mild environments, visiting vivacious ones awakens another part of me. A part that delights in the infectious thunder of cheers, like my dad’s belly laughs that coat the room with mirth. This loudness exists as the crescendo that makes the quiet feel like a natural resolution.
It's a give-and-take, a push-and-pull that creates harmony between the two extremes. The loud provides a release. The quiet offers respite, an opportunity to absorb the bombastic experiences in measured contemplation. Together, they bring dynamism to the human experience.
So, while I may be solitude's humble disciple, I've learned to appreciate loudness' role in creating equilibrium. Because how could one truly bask in the splendor of a whisper, without first bearing the depth-shaking power of a primal roar?
There is unity in these opposing forces, for in their contradictions they birth fertile soil for others to thrive.
My rowdy brethren your booming volumes rise and swell, creating vibrant sparks that give shape and meaning to the stillness where I find repose. Without you, my hushed moments would lack the tension and release that makes silence feel like an earned arrival.
And in return, I hope that my quiet provides a resolving pause that allows others to truly savor the excitement they've created. Like the masterful conductor calling for a perfectly timed fermata, a chance to catch your breath.
We are counterweights that allow each other to shine.
If you’re loud, I love you. But I’ll never match your tone.
I’m not supposed to.
Because we’re different parts of the same whole.
PS - I’m late to this, but April is letter-writing month. So, grab your cute stationery, an archival pen, and some stamps, and scrawl out some notes to those you love!
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I am a very quiet person at this stage of my life. Loud voices really rattle me. My family all had a tendency to talk over each other, with voices peaking as they struggled to be heard.
I am having so many problems with my roommates. Fatigue (endlessly, lately) makes me so sound sensitive and I have produced nearly a half dozen people who are small versions of your dad, all of whom like to talk at once, and when they can’t be heard (over the din) THEY SHOUT. Just last night I was awake with insomnia and I had the thought: “well, this is the only time I can enjoy a quiet house.”