11/06/2026
BLOG: SPEAK YOUR TRUTH
EPISODE ONE
OPENING THE DOOR: WHAT KEEPS US SILENT?
Have you ever left a conversation wishing you had said what you really thought? Have you ever agreed when you wanted to disagree? Said “I’m fine” when you were anything but? My own journey of concealing the truth about my gender identity has led me to think deeply about the nature of silence. Over the years, both personally and professionally, I have observed how easily silence can become a means of survival. We learn to protect ourselves by withholding thoughts, feelings, and parts of our identity when we fear rejection, conflict, punishment, or exclusion. Human beings are not naturally afraid of honesty. Rather, we learn from our environments whether authenticity will be welcomed or whether silence will feel safer.
Many people can identify the exact moment they learned that honesty carried a cost. Sometimes it happened once. Sometimes it happened hundreds of times. Throughout my years as a psychologist, I have repeatedly encountered themes that illustrate how people learn to silence themselves. A child expresses sadness and is ignored. A teenager retreats to a bedroom and disappears into video games because the atmosphere elsewhere in the home feels hostile or unsafe. A learner becomes terrified of giving a speech in front of classmates. Another understands neither the lesson nor the instructions but remains silent, fearing that saying "I don't understand" will invite ridicule and derision from peers.
Over time, these experiences can teach a powerful lesson: speaking up is risky, while staying quiet feels safer. Silence becomes less a choice and more an adaptation.
There is a bigger picture to consider. Small moments rarely remain small. Repeated experiences of dismissal, ridicule, criticism, exclusion or fear over time can shape how a person sees themselves and the world around them. Trauma often teaches silence, and for many children and teenagers, speaking their truth can feel like a threat to safety, acceptance and belonging.
When psychological safety is absent and support is limited, belonging often becomes more important than authenticity. Children learn, sometimes unconsciously, which emotions are acceptable, which opinions should remain unspoken, and which parts of themselves should be hidden. These early experiences become powerful lessons about how to navigate relationships and social environments.
But what happens to the child who learned that speaking in class, at home, or in society was unsafe? Does that learned silence disappear with age, or does it follow them into adulthood, shaping relationships, careers, decisions and sense of self?
This is something I have also experienced personally and repeatedly witnessed in my work as a psychologist. Across university students, high school learners, employees in workplace settings, and individuals navigating relationship challenges, I have seen how silence develops not as absence, but as a form of protection.
As a lecturer, I have encountered many university students who reflect on how, in their high school experiences, disagreeing with a teacher or challenging an opinion was often met with ridicule, punishment, or public embarrassment. In the South African context, and in light of broader historical and educational legacy, some of these experiences can feel deeply embedded in institutional cultures that were not always conducive to psychological safety.
Many of these students also describe common academic activities like group work and class presentations, which often evoke feelings of trepidation and anxiety. These responses are often shaped by earlier learning environments in which speaking up carried risk, while silence became a safer form of participation.
As a trans woman, I think about the impact hiding has had on me, both physically and psychologically. This has included stress-related physical symptoms like gastrointestinal challenges as well as hypervigilance in certain settings. I have come to understand that my transition is not simply about clothes, makeup or changes to my name and gender markers. It also involves unlearning and re-patterning deeply embedded ways of being that were shaped by silence, how I spoke to myself, and how I perceived my place in the world.
I have often reflected on the ways in which organisational culture can shape whether people feel safe to seek support. In some workplaces the fear of mental health stigma can become so significant that employees avoid accessing individual counselling services, even though they are available and are a confidential service.
For some, silence feels safer. There can be a concern that possibly being seen to seek psychological support may negatively influence how they are perceived by colleagues or managers, including assumptions about competence, resilience, or leadership potential.
In these contexts, employees may carry significant emotional distress—whether related to trauma, personal crises, or difficult life circumstances—yet still feel unable to make use of support systems designed for their wellbeing. This raises important questions about psychological safety in the workplace, and what is required for support structures to be truly accessible without fear of judgement or consequence.
When I think of the progress of silence, several phrases come to mind: “keeping the peace”, “avoiding conflict”, “hypervigilance”, and “emotional suppression”. Another concept that is widely known is “fawning”.
Fawning is often described as a survival response alongside fight, flight, and freeze. Fight involves confronting a perceived threat. Flight involves escaping or avoiding it. Freeze involves a sense of being immobilised when neither action nor escape feels possible. Fawning, by contrast, is an adaptive response in which a person prioritises safety and connection by becoming accommodating, compliant, or emotionally attuned to others in environments that feel unsafe.
When I reflect on the fawn response, my thinking often turns to South Africa’s histories of oppression, exclusion, generational trauma, and ongoing experiences of social judgement. I also think about survivors of gender-based violence who may, outwardly, strive to “keep the peace” within their relationships while inwardly longing for safety, freedom, and a different future.
In my clinical experience, these patterns are not uncommon. Across different contexts, I have encountered individuals who have been exposed to racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and religious discrimination. In such environments, fawning can function as a protective strategy—helping a person maintain safety and connection in the presence of perceived threat or power imbalance.
However, over time, this form of adaptation can come at a psychological cost. It may contribute to patterns of self-silencing, diminished self-expression, a shrinking sense of identity, and chronic over-accommodation. Many people carry internal narratives shaped by experiences that were never fully spoken or acknowledged. In this sense, silence is not only individual—it can also be intergenerational and historical.
Ultimately, those who struggle most to express themselves are often not selfish or difficult. Rather, they are frequently highly attuned to the emotional needs of others and the demands of their environments. What once functioned as survival can, over time, become a barrier to living fully.
At this point in the reflection, a recurring theme becomes clear: much of silence is rooted in fear. If I speak, conflict may follow. If I speak, I may be misunderstood. If I speak, I may be rejected. And if I speak, I risk losing love, acceptance, or belonging.
It is worth pausing here and asking yourself: What silent sentence do you carry? What consequences do you fear if that sentence is spoken aloud? What truths feel most difficult to express? Who first taught you what was acceptable to say, feel, or need? And what parts of yourself have you learned to hide in order to belong?
In my experience as a psychologist, I have rarely encountered people who are afraid of honesty itself. Rather, they are afraid of what honesty might cost them—rejection, conflict, judgement, or abandonment. Yet healing often begins in the moment people recognise that their voice deserves space, even when it is not welcomed by everyone.
Perhaps the question is not, “Why am I afraid to speak?” but rather, “What happened that taught me silence was safer?” The answer to that question often reveals more than we expect—and it may also mark the beginning of finding one’s voice again.
“IN THE LIVES THAT YOU LIVE GOING FORWARD, I HOPE THAT YOU CAN FEEL FREE TO SPEAK YOUR TRUTH.”
NEXT WEEK’S TOPIC: “THE EMOTIONAL COST OF PRETENDING YOU’RE FINE.”
JENNA BAYER CONTACT DETAILS
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