I used to treat maintenance as something done on things that could break, like cars, laptops, teams. I never realised how overdue I was for my own.
Lately, I’ve been turning the volume of myself back up.
Not because I suddenly feel louder, but because I finally got tired of being background music in other people’s stories. I’ve spent years fine-tuning my empathy, lowering my voice so no one felt threatened, adjusting my tone to match whatever room I was in. That constant modulation is its own kind of noise.
Now I mute freely.
Not out of spite, but out of sanity. Muting is quiet rebellion. It’s saying: I don’t need to hear every frequency of need. I can let someone else’s discomfort sit where it belongs – with them.
Self-maintenance looks like leaving messages unanswered.
It looks like eating in silence instead of talking through lunch. It looks like choosing not to explain the silence that follows. Because the truth is, explaining drains the very energy I’m trying to protect.
I don’t want to be softer; I want to be still.
And if stillness sounds like distance to some people, that’s fine. They were never listening closely anyway.