When someone said it to me the first time, I felt a little sting. After all, this person was my friend. She didn’t actually mean to offend me. She didn’t really mean it when she interrupted my sentence and said, “God Kelly, I feel like I’m drowning whenever you speak”. That’s just what friends say when you are excitedly telling them about the moving piece you discovered about the power of feminism. She probably didn’t mean it anyway.

When someone said it to me the second time, I felt a strange sense of deja vu. This person wasn’t even my friend. He was just an acquaintance from school who was assigned to give me feedback on my emotional essay about the day my good friend told the world he wasn’t straight. Instead of correcting my grammar, like he was assigned to do, this boy stopped me in the middle of reading my essay to roll his eyes and say, “You take these essays way too seriously. Can’t you just make it easier on the peer editors and write about your dog or something? I feel like I’m drowning reading this”. I was a bit more than stunned at his reaction because I had worked my tail off to make sure my friend’s coming-out story was told in a respectful, open-hearted way. Regardless, I shut my mouth for the rest of class and sat there believing my essay was as poorly written as he had made it seem.

I didn’t truly realize the impact these small words had on me until I heard them for the third time. I was sitting with a group of friends from dance, telling them about my latest concert escapade. Concerts have always been a magical experience for me, and I loved recapping the best moments to my friends afterward. I get a thrill out of live shows because I crave the indescribable feeling of being unified with everyone around me. I'm constantly left breathless when random strangers join as one just because music brought us together. Over the years, my dance friends had always seemed to enjoy my crazy, passionate stories about the shows I attended. On this particular day a few weeks ago, I was telling the small circle of dancers about the gay pride moment I experienced at a recent show. Rainbow lights flashed around us as every single person in the crowd held hands with each other and sang of better days ahead. It didn’t matter what your sexual orientation was because, in that moment, every person in that building was alight with a new sense of belonging and love. As I sat eagerly retelling this story to the others, one girl cut me off mid-sentence to say exasperatedly, “You know, not everything has a deeper meaning, Kelly. God, I feel like I’m drowning in these stupid stories you tell us.”

After hearing these words the first time, I was hurt. Hearing them a second time branded them into my skin like a burning reminder. But hearing them a third time? I suddenly questioned every word that had ever left my mouth.

“I feel like I’m drowning when you speak.”

As someone who dedicates every second of their free time to writing, I was confused. Did my words impact others that negatively? Was my voice so violently turbulent that people couldn’t keep their head above the waves of my words? Did my stories make people feel so furious that they wanted to jump ship, unable to be saved?

Everyone has their insecurities, but I had never stooped as low as to be silent for fear of being ridiculed by my “friends”. Did everyone feel like they were drowning when I spoke? Were my others friends just too afraid to say so all these years? I had always prided myself in being fearless when it came to letting my voice be heard. I rarely did much arguing in large discussion groups, but around my family and friends, I was sure I was safe to say whatever I pleased.

Now I felt like an idiot.

These people were drowning in my words. They were so completely overwhelmed and bothered by my heated passions that they felt submerged under the vehemence of my voice with no one coming to their rescue.

"I feel like I'm drowning when you speak."

After hearing this for the third time, I was embarrassed. I couldn’t believe everyone around me had just been pretending to be interested in what I had to say all this time. I thought people felt my emotions through my words and poems and essays because I loved language and sharing my ideas with those close to me.

But I was wrong.

So I stayed quiet. For the second half of that school year I stopped telling my stories. I stopped sharing my poems with friends. I stopped talking about the things I loved unless it was necessary. I felt helpless. How could I know if people genuinely liked what I had to say versus when they were listening because they felt like they had to?

Months later, I stumbled upon this excerpt from my favorite book of poetry I wrote this for You and only You:

“Sometimes I wonder if you’ve only got a certain number of words and sentences in your head and if you use them all up, you get quiet.

Maybe that’s why the young have so much to say, while the old hold what little words they have left so close and so tightly in their hearts.”

And then, I suddenly had a new perspective.

It was not my job to save people from drowning. If they were drowning, they needed to learn how to swim. Because everyone has a voice and everyone has the right to let it be heard. Why should I silence my thoughts, my emotions, or my pride just because others did not have the capacity to understand it? They needed to open their minds and expand their crystal bubbles of ignorance to the world of passions stronger than just parties and school drama. How did they expect to get through life, fighting against the angry currents that pushed and pulled them so easily under the raging seas?

Learning to swim takes time. I knew that. So I didn’t jump right back into my thrilling, ardent stories about topics I knew needed to be shared. Instead, I took it slow. I let them get their feet wet and, in a way, this gave people the opportunity to stay and willingly listen or to leave. I wasn’t going to continue a relationship with people who didn’t think I was worth learning how to swim for. If they wanted to make the conscious choice to drown in my determined, undulating current, then so be it.