The Soft Griefs in the Throat

💙 When Silence Becomes a Song

There is a grief that does not wail. It settles quietly, like dust in an unused room. Not because the sorrow is small, but because it has no place to go.

This is the grief that gathers in the throat. The one born not from tragedy, but from unspoken truth. 

From the moments we softened ourselves to be received. 

From the pauses we held too long, and the words we buried to keep peace.

Walk-ins, starseeds, and sensitives often become masters of silence. Not because they have nothing to say, but because they feel too much. Because they see what others do not, and saying it risks fracture. 

So they swallow insight. 

They delay truth. 

They become fluent in restraint.

But over time, silence sings. It sings of self-shaping. Of relational editing. Of slow disappearances. And it begins to ache.

This ache is not an enemy. 

It is a messenger. It says:

You have held the shape of peace long enough. 

Now let your voice become the shape of truth.

To speak truth does not require volume. 

It requires clarity. 

It does not demand confrontation. 

It asks for coherence.

And sometimes, speaking begins in silence—not the silence of suppression, but the silence of sacred listening. The silence that prepares the way.

Let your throat not be the grave of your knowing. 

Let it be the gate.

Let the griefs you've buried become breath. 

Let breath become word. 

Let word become song.

And let the song be yours. 

Even if sung quietly. 

Even if sung alone.

This is how silence becomes a sg. on

And how the soft grief in the throat becomes a bell that calls you home.