When Silence Becomes a Spell

There is a particular kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace.

It comes from survival.

Across time and culture, women have been told to be good. Be soft. Be accommodating. Don’t cause trouble. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t speak too much. And if you do, be ready to be disbelieved, disowned, or destroyed.

We were taught that silence was saintly. That it made us pure, holy, respectable.
But the truth?

It wasn’t surrender. It was strategy.

The Woman Who Wove Her Truth

Philomela’s story is one of the oldest surviving tales of silencing. In Greek myth, she was raped by her sister’s husband, King Tereus. When she threatened to speak out, he cut out her tongue.

What could she do, voiceless?

She wove her truth into a tapestry.
Each thread a testimony.
Each pattern a whisper that would not die.

Through that sacred act of creation, her story reached her sister. And together, they burned the world that tried to silence them.

In some versions, the gods transformed Philomela into a nightingale. A beautiful bird, associated with sorrow and song.

But guess what?! —
female nightingales don’t sing. They are mute.

Even in myth, even in metamorphosis, she was made mute again.
And yet, the memory of her truth outlived the men who tried to erase it.

Silence as a Sacred Weapon

Philomela is not alone.

Cassandra was given the gift of prophecy—and cursed so no one would ever believe her.
She saw ruin coming and was mocked for it.

The Vestal Virgins of Rome carried sacred fire for generations—but were sworn to silence, forbidden to speak of what they knew, their flame held in stillness.

And how many of us, in this modern world, carry our own unspoken truths?

Truths we’ve swallowed to be loved.
Truths we’ve buried because they felt “too much.”
Truths we’ve stitched into poems, paintings, breakdowns, and breath.

We are not new in this.
We are the descendants of women who screamed in symbols, who painted their truth in blood and gold and silence and art.

The Cracking Open

But something is shifting now.

You can feel it, can’t you?

In the art. In the poetry. In the rising collective rage. In the way women are reclaiming their bodies, their beliefs, their bloody brilliant voices.

Silence is no longer safe.
It’s splitting at the seams.

And in its place, a new kind of sound emerges:

• The sound of truth, raw and unfiltered.

• The sound of women saying “I’m not hiding anymore.”

• The sound of myths being rewritten by those who once were cast as villains, temptresses, or background wives.

My Own Unraveling

For a long time, I thought being quiet made me safe.

In relationships, in work, in the world—I played the role. Kept the peace. Toned myself down. Smiled even when I wanted to scream. I thought if I was kind enough, quiet enough, good enough, generous enough I’d be accepted.

But silence became a cage.

It was through creativity—through colour, story, goddess myth, and sacred rebellion—that I began to unravel the stitching I’d done over my own voice.

Philomela whispered to me.
Not in sound.
In symbols. In synchronicities. In the stories that rose like embers in my chest.

And now?
I speak.
I create.
I share these stories so other women can remember their own.

You, Wild One

If you’ve ever bitten your tongue to keep the peace—
If you’ve ever swallowed truth so you’d be loved—
If you’ve ever turned your silence into a spell that kept you small—

Then know this: You are not broken. You are remembering.

Your voice may not be loud.
It may not always be safe.
But it is sacred.

And it is time.

Speak through your art.
Speak through your story.
Speak through your becoming.

Even if the words shake. Even if they come out as paint, or poetry, or pink glitter with a middle finger.

You are Philomela.
You are Cassandra.
You are the flame the world tried to smother.

And darling—you still burn.