Silent Revolution

What if the quietest changes inside you end up rewriting the loudest parts of who you thought you were?

Over the years, my confidence has waned. I would tell you by how much, but there isn’t a scale or measure to quantify confidence. I once had it in abundance; now, not so much. I can feel it: it’s depleted.

Unfortunately, this innate trait doesn’t show up for me when it’s needed most. I find myself yearning for motivation, a pep talk, to help summon it. I turn to trusted sources rich in confidence, ready to absorb the words and wisdom that might help me feel whole again. The funny thing is, for my friends and family, I was that trusted source during my formative years.

Because I oozed so much confidence in everything I did or said, I created a persona of someone fearless, willing to do anything to get the desired result. I didn’t fake it; it came naturally to me. It served me well as a young manager climbing the corporate ladder. This trait attracted many of my bosses and teammates, and I won many laurels because of it.

In my family, I am one of three sons—the middle one. Even in our small family, I was the one who had ‘the say’ in discussions and arguments. My brothers and many close relatives would often point out that my parents only listened to me. It was true. It was something I prided myself on, a glory I openly gloated over.

At some point, that pride turned into overconfidence. When friends just needed a silent listener or a shoulder to lean on, I would jump to conclusions and offer them a neat recipe to fix things. If I knew how to fix it, then so could they—or so I thought. Instead of offering empathy, I was dispensing advice.

I didn’t realize any of this until my wife or my brother (probably both) pointed it out to me. I don’t remember the exact topic of discussion, but their words stuck with me. “You know we aren’t like you.” “You just need to listen.” I’m paraphrasing, of course, but the message was clear.

Over the years, I have intentionally tried to change how I respond to situations, but it isn’t easy for me. I still struggle to keep my thoughts to myself every time I have a strong opinion about something. A no‑holds‑barred reaction feels like it’s in my DNA.

What has changed, however, is the realization that what I say doesn’t really change the outcome, no matter how strongly I believe it could. Maybe that’s where my confidence really takes a hit.

Why This Now

I recently rewatched Oleanna, the 1994 film adaptation of David Mamet’s play—a three-part conversation between a student and her professor that escalates from doubt to debate to confrontation and accusation, as patriarchal authority is challenged by those who feel oppressed. Watching it again made me think about my own internal struggle over how to deal with the moral clashes in my personal life.​

My default stance when it comes to conflict has always been to confront it. I have always valued open dialogue over siloed introspection. But it rarely works that way, especially when unresolved issues pile up over the years. Our opinions and biases compound, and the moral ground we stand on is hardly common ground anymore.​

My biggest takeaway from Oleanna is that the words we use have power, but how they are heard and interpreted—the inferences made—can create perceptions very different from what was intended. Which makes me wonder: Would I be better off keeping those words to myself? Are we all better off revolting in silence?

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Cover photo by David DINTSH on Unsplash of a single figure moving forward (with quiet confidence) through a vast, undefined space (of uncertainty).

A claustrophobic duel of words and power, Oleanna shows how a single conversation between a professor and his student can mutate into a moral battleground, where every sentence is a weapon and no one hears what they meant to say.

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