The Things We Don’t Say

On Shame, Silence, and Showing Up

With the holidays in full swing, visiting family, telling old jokes, and arguing about politics or your bad haircut, I am reminded of a feeling that too often pops up during this season: shame.

There are things we don’t say to each other. Not because we lack the desire, but because we lack the courage, the clarity, or the language. Words like divorce, miscarriage, depression, suicide. The words that carry an unbearable gravity. We push them off to the margins of conversation, not because they don’t matter, but because they’re too important. Because speaking them might break us.

In the last few years, two of my closest friends have revealed devastating truths to me. Not in some grand moment of confession, but almost… accidentally. One dropped the word “divorce” casually in conversation while I was washing dishes in Santa Fe. Another, while we were playing pool, told me he and his wife had experienced five miscarriages over the past year. I had no idea. No inkling.

Both moments hit me hard. First, with shock. Then with sadness. And then, with anger. Anger not at them, but at the silence. Anger that they had carried such profound pain without me. That they had suffered privately, while I went on believing everything was fine. That I had missed the chance to show up when it mattered most.

But the truth is, I’ve done the same.

When my younger sister, Hannah, died by suicide, I went silent.

For years, I couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t even admit I had a sister. I avoided conversations that might lead to her name, to her story, to my grief. Not because I was ashamed of her, but because I was ashamed of how shattered I felt. I was afraid of what would happen if I opened that door. I didn’t want to get pushed in and locked in my grief.

So I said nothing.

We often imagine vulnerability as a single decision. A leap. A dramatic choice to open up. But that hasn’t really been my experience. Vulnerability, in my life, has been more like a spiritual discipline. A slow, persistent practice. A muscle that needs training. It started with small steps. Quiet acknowledgments. Attempts to say her name without trembling. To tell the story without falling apart. It was awkward at first. But I kept trying.

Over time, I discovered something interesting. Most people don’t probe. They generally don’t ask the painful questions that I so greatly feared. They just listen. They nod. They bear witness. And that’s enough. In fact, that’s everything.

I also discovered something else. People don’t hide their suffering because they’re dishonest. They hide it because they are afraid. Afraid of burdening others and being misunderstood. Afraid of being vulnerable in a world that is often careless with vulnerability.

More than anything, they’re afraid of being alone in their pain.

That’s where friendship comes in. Real friendship. Because true friendship isn’t about solving problems or offering advice. Not really… It’s about presence. It’s about saying, “You are not alone. I’m here for you.”

This presence is healing. Not because it fixes anything, but because it reminds us that we matter, and we’re not carrying the unbearable alone.

In a culture obsessed with productivity and image, silence can feel safer than honesty. But the longer we stay silent, the more isolated we become. And eventually, the silence becomes its own kind of prison.

Breaking that silence is terrifying. But it can also be liberating.

When my friend told us about his divorce, he didn’t do it with drama. He just said it. And in saying it, he opened a door back into the community, back into friendship. And we welcomed him through.

The same is true for the friend who shared about the miscarriages. I was initially angry that he hadn’t told me sooner. But then I realized he had been carrying not just grief, but shame. Shame that he had changed his mind about wanting children, and that he hadn’t been able to protect his wife from this pain. Shame that silenced him.

And I hadn’t made it easier. I just assumed he would say something if he was hurting. But maybe I needed to knock on that door, too.

The truth is, vulnerability is mutual. It’s about asking as much as speaking. About creating space and saying, “I’m here. I’m not afraid of your pain.”

I think about these moments often. They’ve made me more attentive and more committed to asking better questions. Not just, “How are you?” but “What has been hard lately?” Not just, “What’s new?” but “Is there anything you have been carrying alone?”

Because sometimes people need an invitation. They need permission to be human, and they need to know the room can hold the weight of their truth.

And sometimes, we need to say the thing out loud not for ourselves, but for the people who love us. Because love isn’t real if it can’t hold sorrow. Because friendship that only exists in joy is not friendship at all.

I think of Hannah often. And now, I speak of her without fear of getting locked in grief. The more we speak, the more we find that we’re not alone. The more we speak, the more we give others permission to do the same.

So if you are carrying something heavy, say it. And if someone around you seems quieter than usual, ask.