If it’s not me shushing myself, it’s others telling me to shush. When I finally rise to make my stand, I’m told I’m in the way, or I’m dismissed with a “yeah, but,” or I can see by the expressions on their faces that I’m an annoyance and a bother.
The (implied) eye rolls are palpable. This is survival mode in the organizational hierarchy, in which those who care or want big changes or simply have a thought to express are pains in the asses of those who have spent many years sitting in the same old chairs.
The instances of being shushed, hushed, dismissed, and otherwise shut down seem to increase in direct proportion to my urgency to express whatever might be on my mind. It’s a proportion that I can see as comical in my more generous moments of considering life’s mysterious challenges, but it only feels frustrating in my day-to-day slog to be heard above the din.
Sometimes it’s family, friend, colleague or the great void, and the sounds of my voice seem to instigate in some a tendency toward shutting out or down, a desire to stop me before I say my piece, to hold up a hand and say, “Not now,” or simply make it go away by making no sign of having heard it.
If I sound hurt, then maybe I am. My internal critic, my worst-case reader, is my own unsure self. I am unsure, and nigh near impossible to please. Every sensitivity is trained on the reaction, overt or implied. A moment’s hesitation might negate the compliment, if the tone of voice is not just so, or if the praise is dealt with a smirk or a wink.