Not all harm makes itself known loudly. Sometimes it comes quietly dressed as concern, disguised as humour, or hiding behind familiarity.
We think of violence as something physical, as something that can be seen. Something that leaves a mark that can be pointed to and said, “There. That’s where it hurt.” But what about the violence that doesn’t leave a mark? The violence that seeps into your mind, into your confidence, and stays long even after the event is over ?
That is the violence that is rarely spoken about.
It is the violence that is present in the dismissal of your emotions. In being told that you are “too sensitive” for feeling what you feel. It is in the conversations where you are talked over or talked down to. It is in the expectations placed upon women to be pleasant, accommodating, and understanding, even at the expense of their own desires.
Of course, over time, it builds up. Not enough, individually, to warrant comment. Not dramatic enough, individually, to warrant attention. Yet, collectively, it is a pattern. A pattern of erosion of one’s sense of self-worth.
And the most disturbing aspect of it? We are often encouraged to accept it. To laugh at it. To not make it “a big deal.” To prioritize getting along with others over telling the truth.
And, in the process, we learn to accept the idea that discomfort is acceptable. That diminishing ourselves is a requirement. That “making a big deal” about it is excessive. It is not.
Acknowledging the “soft violence” of it all is not about overreacting; it is about being aware. Being aware that it is not necessary for harm to be severe for it to be felt.
But it’s not easy to unlearn this kind of conditioning. It demands that we face our behaviors that we previously made excuses for and that we set boundaries that previously were nonexistent. It demands that we choose discomfort in the short term in order to have dignity in the long term.
And perhaps most important, it demands that we learn to trust our own experiences.
Because if it doesn’t feel right- it’s diminishing, it’s silencing, it’s making you question your worth, it’s worth acknowledging.
Not all violence is loud.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.
What makes it particularly difficult to identify this as a form of self-violation is how often it manifests as strength. We celebrate being the person who accommodates, who understands, who overlooks things.
But there is a difference between being understanding and being self-erasing.
Every time we choose to override our discomfort to avoid conflict, every time we choose to say “it’s okay” when it’s really not, we are engaging in a slow destruction of ourselves. Not in a dramatic way, not in an instantaneous way but in a way that’s so small, so incremental, we don’t even notice it’s happening.
But we also don’t notice it’s being rewarded as a good thing, as a sign of kindness, of patience, of emotional intelligence.
So we don’t notice how we’re internalising this idea that we’re secondary to everyone else’s needs, that our boundaries are flexible, that our voice can wait.
But then there’s a day when it’s not a choice anymore.
It’s a pattern we don’t know how to escape.
To unlearn this, one must cultivate a kind of honesty that is not easy. It demands that one stop and ask oneself the hard questions: Why did I not speak out? Why did I accept that? What did I fear losing? The answers aren’t easy. Sometimes it is love. Sometimes it is validation. Sometimes it is the fear of being labeled difficult, dramatic, and “too much.”
And yet, it is in these moments of choice that one may feel like they are being exactly those things at first.
And yet, there is a kind of power in starting over. In seeing, in acknowledging, and in choosing, even in the smallest of ways, to do differently. Not better. Not perfect. Just differently. Because healing is not about the other person changing. Healing is about the moment one stops abandoning oneself.
For more, follow up on Avni Singh | Her Campus and Her Campus at MUJ.