When Silence Looks Like Defeat: Choosing My Voice Over Someone Else’s Narrative
There’s a certain kind of peace that comes with minding your business. A certain kind of maturity that grows in you when you’ve healed past the point of needing to respond to every misunderstanding, every lie, every performance meant to get a reaction. I’ve been living in that peace for a long time. So when my phone lit up last week with a message telling me my ex was on TikTok Live talking about me, my first reaction was confusion… followed by a deep sigh.
Because let’s be honest: there is something wild about a man I only speak to when absolutely necessary deciding to speak about me publicly like I’m a current storyline in his life. At this point in life? In this era of my peace, growth, and healing? The audacity was loud for no reason. Still… your girl clicked the link. I had to see what the man was talking about.
And what I saw was a whole lot of inconsistency wrapped in a whole lot of déjà vu. The same narratives. The same lines. The same tired song and dance I’ve heard before. And honestly? It was almost flattering. Who knew I had this kind of boogeyman impact in somebody’s storyline twenty-plus years after the relationship ended?
But the moment he started speaking on our children — and especially our grandchildren — something in me shifted. I don’t play about my kids or their babies. What he said wasn’t just inaccurate; it was a mischaracterization rooted in old lies he has repeated so long he probably believes them. He even made it sound like I only filed for child support because I was some submissive wife following instructions from a Jehovah’s Witness husband. The way people rewrite history when it benefits them is truly something to witness.
Then he hit the live with:
“My wife misses the grandkids. I miss the grandkids.”
A few minutes later, he hit the live with, and I am paraphrasing this one:
But I have to let y’all go so I can be happy for the rest of my life.
Now listen… I didn’t take that as malicious. I understood what he meant. But as a parent, I also know the pain of having distance with your own child. Me and one of my sons didn’t speak for nearly six months. He eventually reached out — apologized, took accountability, and stood on his principles like a man. I was proud of him. But that’s the thing: when relationships heal, it’s because both sides are willing to do the work. You don’t get to blame everyone else for the bridges you burned.
And that brings me back to the live.
He invited viewers to join and address anything he said. Since he mentioned me, I sent a request. Suddenly, he kept claiming I was running. Of course. Theatrics. Finally, he accepted the request and we spoke — if you can call five minutes of being interrupted every sentence a conversation. Any time I tried to speak, he talked over me. Then he accused me of being disrespectful. When I calmly asked him how, he couldn’t answer. Instead, he got frustrated and ended the stream.
Twenty-three years ago, that would’ve broken me. I would’ve shut down, internalized it, and let him tell whatever story he needed to tell. Back then, I still knew him. I still understood his patterns. But today? I don’t know that man. I know of him through our children, but the version of him that existed in my life dissolved a long time ago. So the fact that he even thought he could use me as an example, as content, or as a narrative piece confused me… but it didn’t hurt me.
After the live, I debated responding publicly. I didn’t want to feed foolishness. I didn’t want to match energy I no longer function in. But then God intervened in the smallest, most divine way:
Another text came in saying I was being mentioned on his live again.
That was my confirmation.
Not to argue.
Not to defend.
But to use my voice and tell my truth clearly, calmly, and without performance. I picked up my phone, hit record, and spoke directly — no edits, no filters, no theatrics — using a clip of his live to frame the context.
Because here’s the real lesson:
Silence can be peace, but silence can also be misinterpreted as guilt.
And I will no longer allow other people to use my silence as a canvas for their lies.
I can’t control what anyone says about me. I can’t control how they narrate their life, or who they blame for their regrets, or how they spin the past to make themselves look better. That’s not my business. But what is my business is choosing whether to engage, whether to correct, whether to speak up, or whether to walk away.
And this time, I chose my voice.
Not to argue.
Not to fight.
Not to “win.”
But because my truth deserves space too — without distortion.
This moment reminded me that using your voice isn’t about drama. It’s about alignment. It’s about refusing to shrink just because someone else is comfortable with the smaller version of you. It’s about reclaiming your narrative, your power, and your peace.
So here’s to a new chapter:
A chapter where I speak when I need to.
A chapter where silence is intentional, not fearful.
A chapter where I no longer let people misinterpret my peace as passivity.
A chapter where my voice stands firm — even if it shakes.
Because one thing about growth?
It demands honesty.
And one thing about me?
I will always choose truth.
