Take back the word they tried to bury you with. Set it on fire.
#PrideOnThePage Day 11 (June 11): RECLAIM
#PrideOnThePage Day 11 (June 11): RECLAIM
✨Take back the word they tried to bury you with. Set it on fire.✨ What have you been called that you now wear with pride—or refuse to carry at all? Reclamation is an act of rewriting meaning. This prompt invites you to speak from your scar, not your shame. Burn what was used to silence you. Raise it into something living.
Reclaiming the Echo of Our Own Being
Who decides how much space a person may take?
Who measures whose voice matters?
I have carried these questions with me for most of my life—not in theory, held in my body. I recognize the chilling sensation when an answer is delivered before a single word has left my lips. I know intimately what it means when the pronouncement "too loud" falls, and I understand, with every trembling cell, that it was never about sound. Not once. It was, and always is, about presence. About the audacity of not shrinking when the unspoken expectation was for me to disappear.
For years, I attempted to comply. I labored to be small enough, agreeable enough, quiet enough. I swallowed words whole, each unvoiced truth a pebble in my throat. I know the sting of lost teeth—lost to the sheer tension of holding back what needed saying. My fascia retains the imprint of that restraint, as if my physical form became the last guardian of a part of me I was systematically instructed to silence.
Scars remember. And so do I.
I am not writing this to reclaim rage. That is another story, one I am still learning to tell. No, my purpose here is to reclaim space. The right to occupy my own presence without diminishing. The refusal to carry blame that was never mine to bear. The freedom to speak as I am, not as others might wish me to be.
You and I, we both recognize these pervasive systems. They flourish in every room where the hum of hierarchy vibrates beneath the surface. They thrive on the belief that we must contort ourselves to belong. They feed on our shrinking. They preserve their power through our silence.
So I ask you, here, directly:
Where have you felt the pressure to shrink?
Whose comfort have you prioritized, at the cost of your own voice?
And what might unfold—for you, for me—if we reclaimed that space fully, here and now?
The Table and the Echo of "Too Loud"
This was not a lesson I learned from books. It was learned early, at the family table. I was always the youngest, allowed to sit among the adults—as long as I stayed still. My voice, if it emerged, was to be shaped in ways that pleased them. But when it carried a clarity they did not welcome, or a truth they preferred not to face—there it was: too loud.
It landed each time with the impact of a slap, though no hand was raised. My body flinched the same. Shoulders drawn forward, jaw locked, breath held. The message rang through me: Do not take this space. Do not claim this voice. Do not make this seat your own.
So I didn’t.
For years, I clenched rather than spoke. My silence was not peace; it was calculation. Every word weighed, every sentence measured against unseen cost. There were seasons where silence seemed the only choice.
My body remembers what my mind tried to forget. The tension remains in my shoulders, in my throat that learned to close. The teeth I lost—I understand what they carried: the grinding, the pressure, a force turned inward because it had no safe channel outward.
There is a part of me that remains barricaded. I honor why it is there. It learned to survive when the world did not welcome my voice as it was. That part remains vigilant.
And yet—I speak.
Today, I speak on my terms. My voice holds range and force. I choose its volume. I name truths clearly. And I choose when not to speak—not from fear, from discernment.
This stance is one I am still building. It was not given to me. I have had to construct it stone by stone, from lived experience. I no longer contort myself to fit spaces that diminish me. I do not carry blame that is not mine. And if embracing my full voice means distance from some people, so be it. Their loss, not mine.
This is not about volume. It never was.
It is about presence. It is about space.
The System's Echo: From Personal to Universal
The echoes of this story reflect a broader truth.
This is how systems perpetuate themselves: through patterns so woven into daily life that they almost escape notice. Patterns that teach us to shrink, contort, self-monitor—until we do it to ourselves without prompting.
"Too loud" is one of these patterns. It is not about sound. It is about control. About who is permitted space—and who is expected to recede.
I have seen this unfold in every hierarchical space. It becomes most visible when gender plays a role—when women or non-binary voices unsettle spaces long dominated by patriarchal authority. It plays out across age: I was often the youngest, and the script was familiar: Be grateful. Stay silent. Know your place.
Profession, class, perceived competence—these mark the same pattern.
Who truly decides how much space a person may take?
Who measures whose voice holds value?
These are not abstract questions; they are built into the architecture of systems rooted in unequal power.
This is why I refuse to call this a personal flaw. It was not my tone that was wrong. It was not my clarity that was unwelcome. The discomfort belonged to others. It came from a structure that relied on my silence.
And this dynamic does not stay in conversation. It is visible in public life. Watch any protest. When those without institutional power raise their voices, the dominant narrative calls them too loud, too disruptive. It is an old script.
As I write this, it plays out in Los Angeles—where voices for justice are met not with dialogue, but with dismissal and suppression.
The system depends on this response. If we believe we must stay polite and small, we will not disrupt what must be dismantled.
And so, in this small personal way, I offer this as an act of refusal.
A refusal to shrink.
A refusal to be measured by someone else’s comfort.
A refusal to carry their unease.
Reclamation: Building a New Ground
I reclaim space.
Not through anger. Not through force. Through presence.
I reclaim my right to occupy space, unshrinking.
I reclaim my refusal to carry blame that was never mine.
I reclaim my voice—not its volume, its ground.
I do not speak now to please or provoke.
I speak to inhabit my words fully, on my terms.
This is not an easy stance. It is one I build daily.
There are still rooms where the old reflex returns—shoulders drawing forward, breath caught. And I remind myself: I do not owe anyone my silence. I do not owe them comfort at the cost of my presence.
When I choose not to speak, it is discernment.
When I speak, I do so from my whole self—not shaped to fit someone else’s measure.
I will not contort myself to belong.
If that means some spaces are no longer for me, so be it. I do not lose; I gain integrity.
And I know this: I am not alone in this work.
Many carry this same scar—told in words or tone: you are too loud, too much, too clear, too young, too disruptive.
I see you. I write this also for you.
The system thrives on our isolation. It counts on us treating shame as a personal failing. Yet it weakens when we reclaim what was always ours: space, voice, presence, choice.
These systems preserve themselves through daily gestures. Through the words we absorb. Through the spaces we shrink to fit. Through the beliefs we inherit about whose voice matters.
Yet no system stands unchallenged once we begin to see it.
Awareness is not the end. It is the door.
And here is what I know: the shift begins when I refuse to shrink. Not once. Not perfectly. Over and over. In the moments when the old reflex pulls me back, I choose otherwise.
I choose presence.
I choose voice.
I choose space.
I choose not to carry what was never mine.
And you—where in your life might this choice be waiting?
Where have you been asked to shrink?
Where do you still hold your breath when you speak?
Where might you begin to reclaim space—not to disrupt for disruption’s sake, but to exist fully, unapologetically, as yourself?
If these questions speak to you, take them. Let them move through your days. Let them soften the shell where needed, strengthen your spine where courage is called.
You do not owe anyone your shrinking.
You do not owe them your silence.
You owe yourself the full ground of your being.
And if you reclaim that—voice by voice, step by step—the system begins to shift.
Not by force. By presence.
This is how we begin.
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Jay, your "Reclamation" poem gave me goosebumps. I can imagine it being read as a meditation at the end of a yoga class or breathwork session, so that all of the participants can feel proud to go out into the world, ready to take up space.
Beautifully put. Powerful to hold space for ourselves because we deserve to exist as we are.
Reminds me of being called “too sensitive”…by people who didn’t want to respect my boundaries 🙄