Silent Inheritance ~
Growing up in a home built on privacy teaches deep silence—and sometimes, self-erasure. A reflection on family secrecy, stoicism, and learning to let the soul breathe again.
My parents were incredibly private people. That lifestyle shines through in my own soul—a soul taught to stay quiet, to keep things contained.
We didn’t speak of what wasn’t “lady-like.” We didn’t discuss what might cast a shadow, embarrass the family, or seem improper. My mother was quick to correct me if I spoke out of turn. She would raise her voice, and I would quickly grow silent again.
Even our sibling conflicts were handled privately. If I complained about my brother calling me names, bullying me, or coming into my room late at night—always claiming he was “looking for a pen”—I was told these things would be handled. And for a while, they would stop. But soon enough, they returned.
We were spoken to individually, behind closed doors. The message was always the same: “This will not happen again.” Yet, it did. Again and again.
On the other side of this quiet world was my father. There were moments when he quietly broke the rules my mother enforced.
He’d let me go to the trash dump with him or to a job site (my dad was an architect); places “not meant for ladies.” He’d buy me a hook rug kit when I’d been sick for weeks with pleurisy, even though “buying something for one child isn’t fair to the others.” Those acts always made me feel special. But always, they came with a whisper: “Don’t tell your mother.” Even love came with a secret.
This past week, an article crossed my feed—7 Things You Should Always Keep Private: The Stoic Guide to Privacy. It said privacy is “the quiet shelter we keep forgetting we have,” something the Stoics understood long before social media turned our lives into open windows.
As I read, I found my parents in its words—their reverence for privacy, their instinct to protect appearances, their quiet kindness that never needed applause. Like cupping a candle in the wind, they protected the flame of family image, even when it left me feeling unheard; less than.
The article listed things to keep private:
Money and ambition. “People project their storms onto your sky,” it said. My parents never discussed finances or dreams. Not even hopes. Everything practical was also sacred.
Kindness. The purest kind—done quietly, without applause. My mother was the model hostess: gracious, genuine, admired.
Family chaos and plans. We set goals, but didn’t share them. Keep your plans private. Don’t let others see when they fall apart.
Your inner world. The rituals, beliefs, and quiet thoughts were too fragile for exposure. In our house, routines weren’t discussed; accomplishments weren’t celebrated loudly. Even success was whispered.
Other people’s secrets. “Don’t unfold them in public,” the article warned. And my parents lived by that creed—trust was sacred currency, not to be spent.
The message was always clear: Privacy isn’t hiding—it’s choosing.
Choosing where your soul gets to breathe without an audience.
The Stoics understood that simplicity: Live quietly. Live honestly. Let the world see only what it needs to see. My parents lived by that truth. They believed in keeping the light dim, in showing yourself only when it mattered—when you could make a difference.
And yet, I can now see how much that cost. I have lived what happens when privacy becomes silent; when discretion becomes suppression; when my soul grew so private it forgot how to speak.
Maybe healing is not about discarding that privacy, but about reclaiming it—learning to choose again, this time not out of fear, but from self-respect. But for now, I am choosing to share; to have a voice; to stand against what was, and to stand up for what should be.
~ julie
If you feel so inclined, please reply with your thoughts.
Note: JM Lane is NOT a mental health professional, nor does she carry a license to practice medicine. Posts, blogs, and content are based on JM Lane’s personal experiences, perceptions, and reflections. By no means does any material convey what others should or should not do.