The Burden of Words

I’ve been thinking a lot about silence. Not just the silence of a quiet room or the moments before you drift to sleep, but the kind of silence that comes when you stop sharing parts of yourself with the world. To me, sharing those parts means offering up the raw, unpolished fragments of my thoughts and feelings—the pieces that make me who I am. It’s about letting others see the struggles, hopes, and complexities that often go unspoken. Writing publicly has been my way of holding up a mirror, not just to myself but to the world, hoping that reflection might resonate with someone else. For years, writing has been my lifeline. It’s given me a voice when I felt unheard, a sense of purpose when I felt untethered, and a way to connect with people in ways I never imagined. But lately, I’ve been asking myself: is it worth it?

No matter what I write, it feels like I’m walking a tightrope. I try to be honest, and someone takes it the wrong way. I try to soften my words, and someone accuses me of being inauthentic. I try to tell the truth about how I feel, and people get hurt. Writing is supposed to be liberating, but right now, it feels like a trap.

For most of my life, I wrote in private. I used to write every day, pouring my thoughts and emotions onto the page, only to delete them after I read them. Deleting my writing felt like shedding a layer of skin—a way to release my emotions without the risk of anyone else seeing them. It was cathartic and safe, like whispering secrets to the void. The act of writing gave me clarity, but deleting it gave me control. It meant that my words could exist, even if only for a fleeting moment, without fear of judgment or misunderstanding. It was a ritual, a way to process my feelings without the fear of judgment. But three months ago, I decided to take a leap. I started writing publicly, every day. At first, it felt exhilarating, freeing even. But as time went on, the weight of being seen began to settle in.

It’s a paradox I can’t untangle. People say they want rawness, realness, the truth. But when the truth doesn’t align with their expectations or desires, it’s met with disappointment, anger, or even betrayal. How did it come to this? How did writing, something that has always been a source of joy, become so fraught with complications?

This is my story of trying to answer a question that haunts me: should I stop writing publicly?

The Allure of Public Writing

When I first started writing publicly, it was exhilarating. The act of putting words out into the world felt like planting seeds. I didn’t know if they would sprout, who would see them, or what they might grow into, but the act itself was enough. It was thrilling to know that someone, somewhere, might connect with what I had to say.

I remember the first time someone commented on my work. It was a simple sentence: “Thank you for writing this.” Just six words, but they felt monumental. They meant that my words had reached someone, resonated with them, maybe even helped them feel a little less alone. It was a kind of magic I had never experienced before.

As time went on, writing became more than just a personal outlet. It became a way to build connections, to explore ideas, to engage in conversations I never thought I’d be part of. I wrote about love, loss, identity, and the messy beauty of being human. I wasn’t just writing for myself anymore; I was writing for others, too. And that made it all the more meaningful.

But with an audience came expectations. The more people read my work, the more I felt the weight of their interpretations. Some readers would project their own experiences onto my words, assuming I was writing about them or for them. Others would send me messages asking for clarifications, convinced I was hinting at something unspoken. I even faced moments where people would take offense at what they saw as implied critiques or judgments, though none were intended. Each reaction made me more aware of how my words could be stretched, redefined, and sometimes weaponized in ways I never anticipated. It was no longer just about what I wanted to say; it was about how it might be received. And that’s when the cracks began to show.

When Truth Hurts: Navigating Reactions

There’s a moment that stands out to me, a turning point in my relationship with public writing. I had written a deeply personal piece. It was raw and unfiltered, and at the time, it felt like the only way to process my emotions. But when I published it, the response was overwhelming—and not in the way I had hoped.

Some people praised my honesty, calling it brave and relatable. Others, though, saw it differently. They accused me of airing dirty laundry, of being selfish, even cruel. And the person I had written about? They were hurt. They felt exposed, betrayed, as though I had taken something private and turned it into a spectacle.

That experience taught me a painful lesson: the truth is complicated. It’s not just mine to tell. And even when it feels necessary to speak it, there’s always a cost.

There were other moments, too. Times when my words were misinterpreted, when people read into them things I never intended. Times when I tried to clarify my meaning, only to dig myself deeper into misunderstanding. Writing, which had always been a source of clarity for me, started to feel like a minefield.

The Cost of Vulnerability

Being vulnerable in writing is both a gift and a risk. It’s a gift because it allows you to connect with people on a deep, human level. It’s a risk because it leaves you exposed, open to judgment, criticism, and rejection.

Over the months, I’ve shared pieces of myself I never thought I’d reveal. I’ve written about heartbreak, failure, and the dark corners of my mind. And while that vulnerability has often been met with kindness and empathy, it has also made me a target.

I’ve had people use my own words against me, twisting them into weapons. It shook my confidence in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I began to second-guess every sentence I wrote, questioning whether it could be misconstrued or misused. It made me hesitant, almost fearful, to put my thoughts into words. Over time, I found myself writing less freely, editing myself before I even began. The joy and spontaneity that once fueled my creativity were replaced with a constant sense of caution, as if every word was a risk. I’ve been told I’m too sensitive, too opinionated, too much. I’ve been called selfish for writing about my experiences, as though sharing my perspective is an act of arrogance.

The toll of these experiences is hard to quantify. It’s not just about the external criticism; it’s about the way it seeps into your own mind, making you question your worth, your motives, your very identity as a writer. Vulnerability, I’ve learned, comes at a price. And sometimes, I wonder if it’s a price I can keep paying.

The Expectations of Honesty

People often say they value honesty. They want the raw, unfiltered truth. But what they don’t always acknowledge is that honesty is rarely neat or comfortable. It’s messy, complicated, and sometimes painful.

When I write about how I feel, I understand what I am writing, I’m not doing it to hurt anyone or to seek validation. I’m doing it because it’s the only way I know how to make sense of the world. But not everyone sees it that way. Some see honesty as an attack, as a judgment, as a betrayal.

The truth is, honesty is subjective. My truth is shaped by my experiences, my emotions, my perspective. And no matter how carefully I try to convey it, it will always be filtered through the lenses of those who read it. Some will see it as brave and refreshing; others will see it as confrontational or even cruel.

Why Writing Matters

In spite of all the challenges, I can’t deny the power of writing. It has given me a voice when I felt silenced. It has connected me to people I never would have met otherwise. It has helped me process my emotions, understand myself, and grow.

There have been moments when someone has told me that my words made them feel seen, understood, or less alone. Those moments remind me why I started writing in the first place. Writing isn’t just about expression; it’s about connection. It’s about finding the threads that tie us together, even when the world feels fractured.

A Crossroads: To Write or Not to Write?

So here I am, at a crossroads. Do I keep writing publicly, knowing the risks and challenges? Or do I retreat back into silence, protecting myself from the pain but losing the connection that public writing brings? Retreating into silence would feel like abandoning a part of myself. I wonder if it would mean truly stopping, leaving the pages blank, or if it would transform into something quieter and private—a return to those days of writing only for me, where my words were fleeting but free from scrutiny. Maybe silence doesn’t have to mean an absence of words, but a shift in how they are shared.

I’ve considered alternatives: writing privately, using a pseudonym, shifting my focus to less personal topics. But none of them feel quite right. Writing is not just what I do; it’s who I am. And yet, I can’t ignore the toll it’s taking on me.

Choosing My Path

In the end, I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe I’ll find a way to keep writing publicly, with clearer boundaries and a thicker skin. Maybe I’ll take a step back, allowing myself the space to heal and reflect. Or maybe I’ll discover a new way of writing that feels true to me.

What I do know is that writing matters. It matters to me, and it matters to the people who have connected with my words. And for now, that’s enough to keep me going.