Quieter, But Not Quenched: Why I Don’t Talk As Much Anymore—and Why That’s Not a Loss

There was a time when I always had something to say. Politics, religion, the state of the world—I had opinions, and I made sure they were heard. Back then, especially when I was drinking, I could hold court in any room. My voice was loud, my confidence louder. I thought certainty equaled strength.

But something has shifted.

These days, I don’t talk as much. Not because I’m afraid, not because I’m shrinking, but because I’ve changed. Sobriety, healing, faith, and time have made me quieter. And at first, I was afraid that meant I’d become boring.

But I see now: I haven’t become less. I’ve just become still.

I ask more questions now than I make declarations. I’m less interested in proving I’m right and more interested in understanding what’s true. I work alongside a pastor who knows Scripture far more deeply than I do—and instead of feeling threatened, I feel safe to learn. I don’t have to know everything. I don’t even have to say everything. I can just be present. Open. Listening.

The woman I was before needed to be heard to feel seen. The woman I am now knows she’s seen even in silence.

This quieter version of me doesn’t show up to every debate. She doesn’t post every thought. She doesn’t perform passion for an audience. She’s more comfortable in her pajamas, laughing at Reels with her cats, than holding court in a crowd. And while she may not fill the room with noise, she fills it with peace. With depth. With realness.

I haven’t lost my voice. I’ve learned how to honor it.

I may be quieter now—but I am not quenched. I am not less alive, or less engaged, or less passionate. I’m just rooted in something deeper. Something truer. Something that doesn’t need to shout.

And if that makes me boring to the world?

So be it.