The Weight of Staying Silent

I’ve built much of my life on being reliable. Loyal. Dutiful. Self-sacrificing. These are strengths I’ve cultivated with care—virtues I’ve leaned on to be the kind of person others can count on. I take my responsibilities seriously. I honour commitments. I do what’s asked of me. And I like the respect that comes with that. I hate disappointing others. I hate others disappointing me.

But there’s a danger I’ve learned too late: a strength is excess is a weakness. That’s the part I didn’t see clearly—until it cost someone else.

Years ago, I worked one day a week as a student minister, running a youth group that had grown quickly. In my second year, I was asked to lead the senior group. I set up a leadership structure and asked two capable university students—a young man and a young woman—to take on the devotional program. They were mature, intelligent, spiritually grounded. There was no question in my mind they were the right choice. And I trusted the decision so completely, I didn’t think to check it with the senior minister.

He was a hardliner, staunchly opposed to female leadership. When he found out, he didn’t ask questions. He gave an order: get rid of her. No dialogue. No appeal. Just obedience.

What I should have said was no. I should have stood by the decision I knew was right. I should have defended her. But I didn’t. I was afraid of what it would look like if I pushed back—afraid I would seem irresponsible or disloyal. I thought resigning would signal that I wasn’t committed. And so, ironically, out of fear of seeming unreliable, I failed in the deeper responsibility: to do what was just.

That moment exposed something hard to admit: I wasn’t just afraid of conflict. I was afraid of appearing irresponsible—even when that authority was wrong. I had mistaken dutifulness for faithfulness. And in doing so, I failed someone I should have protected.

I remember the conversation when I told her. I was hesitant, apologetic—trying to soften the blow when what she deserved was clarity and courage. She left the church that day. She didn’t come back. And I don’t blame her.

The rest of that year was hollow. I stayed, but something in me recoiled. I was angry and embarrassed. I had participated in something unjust, and I knew it. I had hurt someone—not by malice, but by passivity. I hadn’t raised my voice. And silence, I learned, is sometimes a choice with consequences just as real as action.

To this day, I carry shame for that moment. Shame not just for what I did, but for who I became in that moment. A person more concerned with seeming responsible than being courageous. A person who chose safety over justice. A person who stayed silent.

But I also carry a lesson that has reshaped me: true responsibility is about standing up for what’s right, standing with others, especially when it costs you something. The most faithful thing I could have done was to say no. To take the blow myself, rather than asking her to absorb it.

What would I do differently? I would defend her. I would name the injustice, even if it meant losing the role. I would bear the disappointment of others if that’s what it took to live with integrity. Because loyalty, real loyalty, isn’t about staying in line. It’s about standing for truth and treating people decently.

I hope—next time—I will.

I used to think loyalty
meant quietly carrying the weight without complaint,
showing up, holding on,
taking responsibility like a vow
you never put down.

I thought it was important
to keeping the engine running
even if something in the machine
was grinding wrong.

But silence,
I learned,
can be a louder betrayal
than any shouted word.

I learned that
a well-structured team
can be undone
by the fear of appearing unruly.
That doing the right thing
isn’t the same
as being seen to do the expected.

I learned
that my greatest strength—
dependability—
can turn
if I love reputation
more than justice,
if I fear disappointing authority
more than I fear
breaking someone’s trust.

I learned
that courage doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes,
it looks like
a simple no,
held steady
in a trembling voice.

I learned that failing to defend
someone I believed in
left a crack in me
that no responsibility
could repair.

And I learned
that you can mourn the kind of person
you thought you were
and still
become someone braver.

Next time,
I want to be the kind of faithful
that stands beside.
The kind of strong
that says no.
The kind of loyal
that doesn’t just stay—
but shields.