Angela Zomaya

It was another family gathering full of cousins I had never met before.

I sat quietly, my ears beating to the bass of the bluegrass band, counting up the hours as they dragged on, waiting to go home. My great uncle Claude, a wiry and keen-witted old man born and bred out of the hills of Eastern Kentucky, sat down across from me.

“You want some chewin’ gum?” he asked, handing me a piece of Spearmint across the table.

“Thanks,” I said bashfully as I peeled off the thin piece of foil.

Uncle Claude, as I remember him, always had a pack of Wrigley’s gum in his pocket and a couple tricks up his sleeve.

I was a shy kid, especially around Uncle Claude, because I never knew what pranks or silly antics he’d pull next. After a couple attempts at starting a conversation—to which I would offer up no more than a few words or a giggle—he paused, leaned forward, pointed at me with a crooked finger and said,

“You know what? You’re smart. When you’re quiet like that, you know your business and everyone else’s, too. I like that.”

That was the first time I remember having my naturally quiet demeanor praised and respected by an adult. A smile spread wide across my face.

Who better than a wisecracking mountain man to make a kid feel truly seen?

Growing up, I kept my nose in the books and was never the first to speak. I felt most comfortable taking a backseat in social situations. I had plenty of thoughts, ideas and dreams in my head to keep me satisfied. For the most part, my quietness was just part of my personality.

Adults and kids alike would often urge me to “come out of my shell,” which, in time, I would eventually do, as new life experiences required, like the summer I spent with my cousins in Chicago, where I started learning the Assyrian language; and my first job at a dairy bar, where making polite conversation was just as much a part of the job as making fries and shakes.

My social skills naturally improved with age. Being a first-generation high school graduate, I had a lot to learn about the “real world,” and the real world, whether we like it or not, largely revolves around other people. Relationships are important and I had to learn how to build them. College itself was a rigorous developmental period, both academically and socially, and joining a community theater group was a big step. Being part of a group where unadulterated self-expression was encouraged was a huge boost for my self-confidence.

Over the years I slowly evolved from a shy kid to a confident young adult.

I learned how to ask questions, how to speak to a crowd, and how to network. I went on dates. I went to parties and conferences. I met new people and traveled to new places. For a while, I was a self-proclaimed “extrovert.” I forced myself out of my comfort zone, and in a lot of ways, it has paid off.

It has also been exhausting. Stepping outside your comfort zone only to meet the world in its own gets tiresome eventually.

My late teens and early twenties were a vital period of transformation which I now see as a necessary but temporary overshoot of extroverted tendencies. Having largely overcome my own shyness by now, I no longer fear speaking up when I have something to say. However, I also believe that oftentimes there is more value in staying quiet and staying curious.

Now at 24, as I settle into adulthood, I’m starting to see the wisdom of my younger self in a new light.

These days, I’m less concerned about getting people to like me and more focused on earning their respect, and one of the most respectful things you can do for someone else is to listen.

The reason why Uncle Claude’s words meant so much to me that day is because instead of pushing me to be something I wasn’t, he spoke to the value of me just being myself. That day, I felt a little more comfortable in my own skin and a little less pressured to conform. Perhaps being the quiet kid was okay after all.

While I believe we should encourage our children to be confident enough to let their voices be heard—especially our girls—it’s just as important to let them be comfortable with who they are. If that means they prefer to listen more than they speak, then that’s okay, too.

Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?

Charles Bukowski

Lately, I’ve taken a step back and challenged myself to speak only when necessary: only when it is helpful, only when it is true, only when it is kind.

It has served me well during this global period of uncertainty, when rumors and loud opinions can so easily overshadow reality and cloud our perception. Voluntary silence should not be seen as ignorance, passivity or fear, just as loudness should not imply intelligence.

I believe I’m not alone in feeling this way. The world is full of “quiet kids” of all ages, and if there’s one thing we know, it’s that learning, creativity and wisdom often comes in those quiet moments when we’re minding our own business. Uncle Claude knew it, too. We know what we’re doing, and when we have something to say, we’ll say it—confidently, and on our own terms.