The Other Side of the Story: When Silence Becomes a Second Wound

Sometimes I think about how loud a story has to be before people believe it.

Or maybe it’s not about the volume at all—maybe it’s about who’s telling it. The person with the bigger platform. The passport that opens more doors. The one whose version of events comes with better lighting, better posture, better words.

Because once a story is repeated enough times, it starts sounding like the truth. And the more one side is told, the more it becomes the only side people are willing to believe.

But what happens to the other side?
What happens to the version that isn’t polished or perfect but still real?

I’ve been sitting with this question for a while, quietly, as I always do before I find the courage to speak it.

Because I’ve lived this tension between truth and tone, between voice and judgment.

Sometimes, I wonder how many of us are walking around holding pain that was never even acknowledged, simply because someone else’s version was louder. Or more acceptable. Or easier to digest.

It’s Not Just About What You Say—It’s How It’s Framed

Let me give you an example. A real one.

A few years ago, I read an international news article about a young migrant woman from West Africa. The headline was heavy. The language used to describe her was subtle, but clear: “undocumented,” “desperate,” “unstable.” The photograph attached? Her head was tilted down. She looked away from the camera. The caption reduced her entire life to a single line: “Fled home country for better opportunity in Europe.”

Nowhere in that article did it mention what she fled from.
No war. No abuse. No climate disaster. No generational trauma.
No complexity. No humanity.

Just the angle that made her small enough to pity, but not full enough to understand.

This is what I mean by framing.
By narrative control.
By whose voice gets amplified and whose truth gets edited out.

Because when people don’t hear the full story, they start to assume you don’t have one.

The Cost of Being Misunderstood

And the worst part?
When the world misunderstands you for long enough, you start to mistrust your own memory.

You wonder if maybe you’re the problem.
You question why you’re always the one trying to explain.
And somewhere in the middle of that performance, you begin to shrink until even you can’t recognize the version of yourself that’s looking back in the mirror.

I’ve been there.

Especially as someone living between cultures, systems, expectations, and neurodiversity. Especially as someone navigating motherhood while rebuilding my life in a society that seems more interested in my résumé than my reality.

I’ve learned that silence doesn’t always come from peace.
Sometimes, it comes from exhaustion.

Everyone’s Story Is Sacred—Even If It’s Incomplete

This isn’t about blame.
It’s not about villainizing others or rewriting anyone’s part in your life.
It’s about remembering that no one person can hold the whole story and the danger is in pretending they can.

Everyone holds the power to their truth.
And no one story is one-sided.

Sometimes, the mother who’s labeled “cold” is just tired of not being seen.
Sometimes, the friend who “pulled away” was drowning under the weight of expectation.
Sometimes, the immigrant who “doesn’t try hard enough” has been trying ten times harder—just not in the way you measure success.

There are no real winners in a story of pain.
Only people trying to survive it.

So What Now?

Tell your story.

But not because you need to defend it.
Not because you want to be rescued.
Tell it because it’s yours.

Tell it because the world needs more people brave enough to speak even when they’re shaking.
Tell it because someone, somewhere, is carrying your same invisible weight and hearing your story might be the first time they realize they’re not alone.

And if you’re not ready to tell it yet? That’s okay too.
Just don’t bury it so deep that you forget how to hold it with grace when the time comes.

So today, I’m not shouting my truth from rooftops.
I’m simply offering it, in the open. Softly.
The way I would to someone I love.

And maybe that’s enough.

—

With grace,
Elizabeth Iember

✨ Reflective Journaling Prompt:

1. Whose version of your story have you been living?

2. What part of your truth have you quieted to make others more comfortable?

3. What would it feel like to write the story from your side, without apology?