When Speaking Up Feels Difficult — A Collective Unease

Do you find it difficult to express your emotions and thoughts, both in your personal and professional life? If so, know that you are far from alone.

I have been reflecting on this question for a long time. Around me, I observe just how challenging it seems for many people to convey what is truly going on inside them—mentally as well as emotionally. And I want to say this right away: I am not exempt from this reality. Despite the years and the conscious work I have done to assert myself more, it still does not come naturally to me.

What motivates this piece today is the scale of the phenomenon. Its recurrence. Its near banality. And so the question arises: is this a societal ill?

We live in an era where self-expression appears to be encouraged. Initiatives to reduce the stigma around mental health are multiplying. Training programs increasingly emphasize emotional intelligence, vulnerability, and authenticity. Movements of public reckoning have helped break certain silences, and society is calling for greater transparency from its leaders in an effort to rebuild fragile trust.

Studies such as the Edelman Trust Barometer have also shown, over the years, a clear shift—from a search for truth to a search for trust. External forces seem to be pushing us to reflect, to evolve, to speak.

And yet, for many, taking that first step remains extremely difficult.

Where the difficulty of speaking up takes root

In my case, it begins within my family. I grew up in an environment where self-expression was not encouraged. For a long time, I felt like the black sheep—the one trying to put words to what was said in hushed tones, to what lingered in the air without ever being named.

I remember family discussions where, as the youngest and the only girl, I was consistently asked to “start things off.” That responsibility felt unfair. Why me? Why not the adults? Why not my brothers, who were older than I was?

Highly sensitive and deeply intuitive, I felt intensely what remained unspoken. This accumulation of unexpressed emotions created a profound inner discomfort. And when I tried to speak, words turned into tears, my voice trembling or rising, adding to the overall frustration. My brothers’ mocking remarks only made things worse; they simply wanted the discussion to end as quickly as possible.

Eventually, these conversations disappeared, replaced by silence, secrets, and grey areas. I learned to navigate this muted world—to decode rather than to speak.

Without holding any resentment toward my family—each of us does the best we can with what we’ve learned—I now recognize that my difficulty in expressing myself took root there, in that first environment so fundamental to emotional development.

When silence becomes a survival mechanism

As a teenager and young adult, my passion for travel led me to Costa Rica at 16, and then to India at 19 through an exchange program with Canada World Youth. These experiences were marked by sexually traumatic events.

It was there that I learned, without realizing it at the time, the freeze response. In both cases, my immediate surroundings chose to assign me a share of the blame: clothing deemed too revealing, behaviours perceived as “encouraging.” Being judged, blamed, and silenced by my peers left deep scars.

The aggressors were older, in positions of power or authority, and bore no resemblance to relationships that were wanted or consensual. Still, the implicit message was clear: staying silent is safer than speaking up.

Over time, that imposed silence became a reflex.

Relearning how to speak up, one step at a time

The years that followed were marked by autopilot mode. A small voice kept repeating: suck it up, buttercup. In my professional life, I developed an effective armor: expressing my ideas, yes. My emotions, no.

That strategy protected me for a while, but like all survival strategies, it eventually wore thin. Putting a bandage on a wound without treating it does not work indefinitely.

My journey has been shaped by several experiences: the Governor General’s Canadian Leadership Conference in 2015, therapy, work on vulnerability, and professional coaching. But what helped me most was surprisingly simple: practicing self-assertion.

Saying no. Setting boundaries (still challenging to do!). Giving myself time to reflect before responding. Learning to listen to myself, even when I ultimately choose to say yes. Talking to myself as well—entering into an inner dialogue and asking, what is happening inside me right now?

I also came to understand that the only thing I truly control is my own actions. The other person’s reaction does not belong to me. By moving away from avoidance, I let go of the feeling of powerlessness and find greater peace.

I do not claim to have a definitive answer, nor can I say with certainty whether the difficulty of speaking up is a societal ill. But one thing is clear to me: expressing oneself and asserting oneself are deeply tied to the relationship we have with ourselves.

Staying silent to avoid discomfort, another person’s reaction, or conflict may feel protective in the short term. But over time, that silence often weighs heavier than the words left unspoken. Speaking up—even imperfectly—is a way of giving ourselves a chance to feel more aligned, more at ease.

So perhaps the real question is not what might go wrong if we speak, but what it costs us to keep remaining silent.

When silence is learned, speaking up becomes an act of growth.