A Childhood in Silence: My Journey to Finding My Voice

I spent much of my early childhood running through the fields of the farms where my grandparents worked, playing in trees, and trailing behind my grandfather like a quiet shadow. He didn’t speak much English, even though he was born in California. His parents were Japanese immigrants, and whether it was shyness or something else, he rarely spoke. It didn’t bother me — I wasn’t much of a talker myself.

Silence was my safe space.

In my early years, I faced challenges that made me retreat even further — bullying, moments of humiliation, and a deep-seated belief that my voice didn’t matter. I often looked down, too afraid to meet people’s eyes. I believed I was ugly. Speaking felt like exposing something I wanted to hide. And when I did speak, my voice came out breathy, uncertain, as if it didn’t fully belong to me.

Someone once told me that looking down was rude. I hadn’t realized. So, I started looking up — but I still held back. I still felt like I didn’t deserve to take up space.

And yet, in the quiet corners of my mind, there were stories.

I was a curious, imaginative child. I made up stories constantly, living in worlds of my own creation. When I was in second grade, I was cast in the fourth-grade play. I had just one line, but in my mind, I wasn’t just a second-grader with a small role — I was ready. I memorized not just my line but every line in the play, just in case someone needed a last-minute replacement. I watched, studied, and waited.

Of course, no one ever asked me to step in. And when my moment came, I was so excited that I stumbled over my one line. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember the feeling — a mix of exhilaration and disappointment. I had wanted so badly to belong to that world, to be part of something bigger than my silence.

At home, no one really encouraged me to pursue performing. My mother wasn’t involved, and my father wasn’t in the picture. To this day, I don’t even know who put my name in for that play. I don’t remember my mother coming to see it. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t.

A year later, we moved to Ohio. A new town, a fresh start — but the same quiet girl.

I loved books, and in school, if you were lucky, you got chosen to present a book report in front of the class. I was excited when it was my turn. I had picked Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, fascinated by the characters, the adventure, the rhythm of the words.

But before I could even begin, my teacher stopped me.

“This is the kind of trash you read?” she said, in front of everyone.

The entire class laughed. I don’t remember what I did next. I just remember the feeling of heat rising to my face, the shame swallowing me whole. I had been so ready to share, to speak — but I had been wrong. My choice, my voice, had been wrong.

And so, I shrank again.

But there was something else inside me, too.

I had never been to a real play, never seen one performed live. And yet, at the age of eight or nine, living in an unfamiliar apartment complex, I somehow knew that stories were meant to be shared.

I found an old tulle skirt — something that made me feel like a performer — and a little red wagon. I marched around the apartment complex, calling out:

“It’s time for a play! We’re having a play! Come out and join us!”

I don’t know how I knew anyone in that complex. We were new. I was different — the only mixed Asian kid around. And yet, somehow, children came. They gathered. We danced. We played. We performed.

Maybe I wasn’t as invisible as I thought.

That moment didn’t erase the fear or the self-doubt. It would take years — decades, even — for me to truly step into my voice with confidence. But looking back, I see the seeds of something important.

Even when I was afraid, I wanted to share.
Even when I doubted myself, I was creating.
Even when I believed I had no voice, I was calling people together.

I didn’t know it then, but my voice was already there. It had always been there.

I just had to learn to trust it.