I’ve been thinking about the habit of holding back.
Not the thoughtful kind. The other one.
The kind where you know what you want to say, but you measure the room first. You consider the mood, the timing, the possible consequences. You decide it’s easier to stay quiet, just this once.
And then just once becomes often.
At first, holding back feels responsible. It feels like maturity. Like choosing peace over proving a point. But over time, something else starts to happen. The unsaid words don’t vanish. They settle somewhere inside, waiting for a moment they may never get.
What’s strange is how much it costs, though no one can see it. Nothing breaks immediately. Relationships continue. Conversations happen. Life moves on. But slowly, a distance forms, not because of conflict, but because of everything that was never allowed to exist out loud.
Holding back saves the moment, but it weighs on the future.
You begin to edit yourself in advance. You soften truths before they even reach your mouth. Eventually, you forget what the unedited version sounded like.
And then one day, the silence feels heavier than the words ever would have.
I don’t think holding back is wrong. But I’m starting to believe it’s never free.