Trigger warning: This piece has mentions of anxiety.

I HAVE become very good at being busy. Good enough that people noticed I was always rushing from one place to another, booked with meetings that lasted until 10 PM, and buried in documents until 2 AM.

In between all of that, I somehow find time to stop in hallways, catch up with people, and be present in events. I am often asked, “How do you do it all?” and in response, I usually smile and say I enjoy what I do.

But the truth is, I need to be busy.

I fill my days not because there is work to be done, but because silence leaves me alone with thoughts I would rather avoid.

As such, meetings have become justifiable excuses to avoid the quiet waiting for me, since there is always something urgent that lets me say, “I will deal with that later.”

But “later” has a way of arriving. In the rare moments when everything slows down—when deadlines slowly disappear or I have nothing urgent to do—a quiet, persistent voice asks whether I am as capable as people think. These thoughts fill the silence gradually, then all at once, until the silence feels suffocating.

To avoid that uncomfortable feeling, I make myself busy again. Because of this coping mechanism, constant motion starts looking like success, and there is comfort in that illusion—that I am doing something right.

It’s a cycle I have grown used to. Somehow, control has always felt safer than vulnerability. And yet, I tell myself that I am open, that I let people see the ugly parts of me.

But there are still parts of me that remain untouched in those conversations, and I keep them carefully out of reach.

There is a difference between being accessible and being vulnerable. What I share is often curated—enough to feel real, but not enough to expose the parts that are uncertain, insecure, or overwhelmed.

I have built an identity around being capable, someone who can handle pressure and deliver. But it also comes with a quiet pressure to hold that image together, no matter what. Because what happens when I start to crack?

In spaces where competence is valued, vulnerability feels like a risk. So instead of lowering my guard, I stay composed, productive, and in control.

But the constant effort to hold everything in place begins to take a toll, and sometimes I wonder what it would be like to sit in the silence without trying to escape it—to be known fully without filtering parts of myself.

I have seen that honesty in others—the kind that shows vulnerability does not weaken them, but makes them more whole. There is strength in vulnerability, even if we don’t always name it that way.

I want that kind of strength, and maybe that is where growth begins. Not to tear down my walls all at once, but with smaller things. Letting moments of silence last a bit longer, saying something honest without softening it first, allowing myself—even briefly—to exist without filling every space.

For now, I exist somewhere in between: aware of the walls I have built, but still hiding behind them.

But for the first time, I am not just running away from the quiet—I am starting to listen to it. 

Isabel Candida Gonzales is a Diplomacy and International Relations senior at the Ateneo de Manila University, expected to graduate in 2026. Advocating for more inclusive spaces, she explores how power dynamics influence inclusion and exclusion among peers. 

Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.