I’d Rather Be Uncomfortable Than Silent

Here it is. All in one piece. Clean. Grounded. Podcast-style. Full Wytnee grit.

I finally sat down at my gate.

Shoes off. Bag tucked under the chair. One of those deep exhales you do when you realize you made it. I had to make two pit stops on the way because my bladder has officially entered its old-lady era. I laughed at myself the whole time. TSA though? Shockingly smooth. No chaos. No barking orders. No bins flying everywhere. I got through early enough to actually sit, breathe, and think about food. Which immediately turned into the internal negotiation of whether I eat now or risk my gut screaming at me at 30,000 feet. These are the real travel dilemmas no one talks about.

And sitting there, people watching, I kept thinking about that post I shared a couple nights ago. The one about junior high girls. Innocence. Protection. Boundaries.

I posted it to a local community page. And it took off.

Over eighty likes and loves. Around twenty comments. And the comment section did exactly what comment sections always do. The people who like to argue showed up early. The ones who dismiss concerns like this as overreacting or dramatic made their appearance. A few parents I fully expected to disagree did not disappoint and made complete asses of themselves with confidence.

But here is the thing. None of it rattled me.

Because I have told my kids this more times than I can count. Other people’s reactions to you are not your responsibility.

So I did something intentional. I liked every comment. The supportive ones. The critical ones. Even the ignorant ones. Not to agree. Not to engage. Just to acknowledge and let it go.

I said what needed to be said. I started the conversation. And then I walked away.

And quietly, my DMs started filling up.

Parents who agreed but were not comfortable commenting publicly. People thanking me for saying out loud what they have been thinking for years. Mothers who feel the same tension and discomfort but have learned to stay quiet because it feels safer.

That is how you know something mattered.

When people whisper their agreement instead of shouting it, you know you hit a nerve.

Did I ruffle feathers? Absolutely. Am I sorry? Not even a little.

If protecting kids makes people uncomfortable, that discomfort does not belong to me.

Then there is the harder part of today.

Leaving my girls.

That never gets easier. I do not care how many times you travel or how independent you become. Walking away from your kids always leaves a small ache. I will be gone for a week. I know they are okay. I know they are loved. I know routines will continue. And still, the quiet feels louder when you are the one leaving.

I will miss the small stuff. The random texts. The overlapping voices. The way the house sounds when everyone is home.

I wish this trip included beach time. I wish it meant sand between my toes and sun on my shoulders. Instead, the cold followed me south like it knew I needed to stay grounded. I will be in a sweater the whole time. No ocean. No barefoot walks. Just a different city and a full schedule.

Now I sit here watching the clock tick.

We will see if this flight takes off on time. Roads were good until I hit Indy. Then they went to absolute shit. But I made it. I showed up. I spoke up. I chose courage over comfort.

Because speaking up is not about winning arguments. It is not about convincing everyone. It is not about being liked. It is about alignment. It is about saying this is where I stand and letting the rest sort itself out without dragging you down with it.

There was a time when criticism would have eaten me alive. When every disagreement felt personal. When I would have stayed up replaying comments in my head, crafting imaginary responses, shrinking myself to keep the peace.

That version of me is tired. And she is done.

Now I understand something deeply. You can care deeply and still let go. You can speak boldly and still keep your peace. You can start conversations without staying for the fight.

So if you are reading this and you have been sitting on a post, a boundary, a truth you are afraid to voice, hear this.

Say the thing. Start the conversation. Trust your gut. Then let go.

You are not responsible for how people react to your honesty. You are only responsible for being honest in the first place.

Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to board this flight, pull my sweater tighter, and carry this same energy wherever I land.