Entry Eight: Right from Wrong & Hanes Her Way

When was the last time you knew you should speak up—but didn't?
What stopped you?
What would it take for you to become the kind of person who does?
And who do you want to be the next time you're faced with that choice?

Write it.
Feel it.
Say it.

Why is that when you try to do the right thing–like, genuinely take the high road.

Be a good person, a truth-teller, and advocate–it somehow feels like you’re doing something deeply, horrifically wrong?

Instead of feeling brave, righteous, or ready to fight the good fight, I feel like I’m about to shit myself on national television. Like someone shoved me on stage for a surprise TED Talk… naked.. While my ex, my mother, and every one I’ve ever trauma-dumped on were front row with popcorn and passive-aggressive smirks. 

Whatever. I signed up for this.

Time to hike my Hanes Her Way granny panties above my c-section scar and call it a fucking day…

That’s what I thought I was going to do until my anxiety kicked in wearing platform heels while lighting my nervous system on fire like it was 1997 and someone just played Boys II Men over a slow-motion breakup scene. 

Terrible, I know.

Stammering through imaginary arguments, clenching invisible evidence (not invisible, I actually have some), and trying not to sob while fake cross-examining my own conscience. It’s fucking brutal up there in my noggin— It was less “I’m ready to do what’s right,” and more “I’m one thought away from creating a burner identity and fleeing to a town where no one knows me or my trauma curls.”

Is it even my place? Or do I shut the fuck up like a good girl and let it rot—carry on unbothered? 

Because that’s what we’re taught, isn’t it? 

“Mind ya business.”

Translation: shut your fucking mouth, cross your legs, and don’t poke the monster if it hasn’t bitten you directly in the ass. 

And sure, I can do that. I have done that. 

But first, let’s not pretend I’m some peace-keeping, vanilla sexting, boundary-respecting saint.  I’m a nosy, trauma-laced, over-thinking bitch who collects red flags like they’re Pokémon cards and has never ONCE known how to shut up at the right time. 

But lately? I keep to myself.

Not because I’m healed–please. I’ve just learned that people weaponize your honesty when it doesn’t benefit them.

But this? This isn’t about me.

It’s not my fallout. Not my name in the mess. And yet–I can feel it crawling up my spine, whispering in my throat, setting off alarms in places only trauma knowns how to reach.

Because I might be the only one who sees it. They only one who hears it. Smells the bullshit, recognizes the pattern for what it is: violence with a delicious smile.

And the person who can’t speak?

They’re caged. Scared. Or silenced by shame, manipulations, or good ol’ generational gaslighting.

So now I’m stuck in this moral limbo: Do I say something, knowing it’ll shake the table? Or do I stay silent and let someone else carry the weight I know they’re not equipped to hold?

It’s a shit sandwich either way. But here’s what I’ve learned– the hard way, the fuck-around-and-find-out way:

Sometimes the right thing feels wrong because it’s uncomfortable. We don’t allow ourselves to sit in unease for too long. As soon as we start to feel the shift we automatically disengage in order to protect ourselves.  Doing the right thing often means you’re standing alone, while everyone else is keeping their head down, praying no one drags them into it.

But this isn’t about being a hero. It’s about not being a coward when someone else is being crushed in silence. 

This isn’t some dramatic call to arms or a martyr monologue either. It’s just me, pacing in my kitchen, internally screaming, and knowing deep in my chest that silence would haunt me more than the backlash ever could.

Because the moment you realize your voice might be the only one in the room– You better fucking use it!!

Even if it shakes. Even if it burns bridges. Even if it makes you that “too much” person people whisper about.

Especially then.

Let them whisper.

I’d much rather be called too much than be complicit in someone else’s silence.  Again, Let’s be clear I’m not some sainted savior walking around with a halo. I don’t have a superhero cape– unless you count my weighted blanket and crippling social anxiety.

But I do have a voice. And a mouth that has never known when to stay politely shut. And honestly? That’s starting to feel like a spiritual gift more than a curse. Because I don’t want to be the person who saw the wreck, turned the music up, and kept driving. 

I don’t want to be the person who stays quiet to stay comfortable, or worse–liked.

I’m too old, too healed, and too full of generational rage to pretend silence equals safety. Speaking up isn’t ‘starting drama” if you’ve never been the one getting destroyed in the silence.

Stay the fuck out of it, if that’s what you think–respectfully.

And I get it–being the loud one, the confrontational one, the “here she goes again” one?

It’s not easy.

It comes with side-eyes and whispered convos and full-ass family group texts titled “WHAT DID SHE SAY NOW.”

I’d rather be that bitch than the one who watched something wrong happen and shrugged it off like it was above her pay grade.

At the end of the day – when you put your head down on the pillow and all the noise fades–you’re the one who has to sit with yourself.

Not them. Not the people who told you to stay quiet. Not the ones who benefited from your silence.

YOU.

Again, I’m not perfect. Far fucking from it.

I’ve just swallowed words I should’ve said. I’ve bit my tongue until it bled.

I’ve sat in rooms and let things slide because I didn’t want to be “difficult,” “emotional”, or “that girl.”

And I’m not fucking doing that anymore.

Because anyone who is comfortable with your silence, but not your truth, was never 

your people anyway. 

I didn’t grow up with a legacy of women who were taught to speak up. They were taught to survive. To hold their tongue. To “be nice.” To serve, smooth it over, and shrink. 

I was raised by women who could cook a full holiday meal with one hand and stuff down their own heartbreak with the other. 

Who cleaned house and held shit together sitting in chaotic silence. Women who smiled through gritted teeth and accepted that “some things just aren’t spoken about.”

I’ve over it.

I’m a woman with a filthy mouth and a full heart, allowing my voice to take up space.

To question.

To say no.

To say enough.

To say fuck this and fuck you and fuck staying quiet to keep the peace. 

Peace isn’t found in silence.

My peace is found in knowing that the woman I’m becoming–imperfect, loud, emotional, and relentless–is building something stronger.

Not just for me.

But for my daughter and my sons. And for every future version of us who needs to know that discomfort isn’t danger–it’s the beginning of change, and utilizing your voice is the most powerful tool to keep in your arsenal.

‘Til next time.