“Is it better to speak or die?”
in Call Me by Your Name
The line isn’t shouted.
It’s not part of a climax.
It arrives gently, in conversation — and lingers like smoke.
The scene:
She is telling a story.
About a man who once fell in love but never told the person.
Not out of cowardice, but out of fear.
And then she turn to the teenage son who’s caught in a storm of desire and hesitation and asks:
“Is it better to speak or die?”
She doesn’t mean physically die.
She means something far more terrifying:
“Is it better to take the risk of being fully known
or to keep yourself (or your love) buried, safe, and silent…
until one day you realize no one ever really knew you at all?”
In the film, this question isn’t about politics or justicem, it’s about
intimacy and becoming.
It’s about:
- That single moment of decision, do I say it?
- The electric fear that truth might break what’s already fragile
- The ache of watching your one chance for connection slip by, unspoken.
It’s not loud.
It’s not public.
It’s private rebellion, the kind that takes place in glances, pauses, fingertips, and pages never sent.
In The Story, he chooses to speak.
And he is heard.
But even then, it still hurts.
Because speaking doesn’t always lead to happy endings.
Sometimes it leads to heartbreak.
But at least the heartbreak is honest.
At least he didn’t vanish inside the silence. He avoids death.
The question now: Do I keep hiding to keep the peace, or do I finally say what I need to say — no matter who walks away?
Answer: I choose my own love. I showed up for me.
Here is the creation.
To the boy I used to be
So, it is better to speak or to die?
Let me tell you how this really felt.
It felt like waking up with a weight on my chest I couldn’t name.
Like apologizing for my emotions before I even expressed them.
Like being in a room full of people and still feeling like the loneliest one there.
It felt like performing goodness to avoid guilt.
Like earning love instead of receiving it.
Like being trained to protect everyone else’s feelings while learning to ignore my own.
It felt like being cast in a role I never auditioned for.
- The “strong one,”
- The “quiet one,”
- The “resilient one”
- The “collector of broken toys”
When all I wanted was permission to be held.
I’ve spent years carrying shame that wasn’t mine.
Years wondering if I was just too sensitive, too dramatic, too much.
But what if I wasn’t?
What if I was just a child with feelings in a house too small to hold them?
What if this isn’t rebellion,
but return?
What if self-love isn’t always soft?
What if it sometimes sounds like:
“I’m done explaining my pain to people who don’t want to understand it.”
This post is not the end of anything.
It’s the beginning of me.
Not the version that’s easy to love.
Not the one who tiptoes around my feelings to protect yours.
Not the one that knows how to keep the peace.
The one that knows how to speak.
Preface: To my parents
This isn’t written in anger.
It’s not a rejection of the love you tried to give.
It’s not meant to shame you, punish you, or make you small.
It’s just the truth I never felt safe enough to say.
And now I must.
For years, I filtered my words through your comfort.
I measured every sentence against how it might make you feel, while quietly abandoning how I felt.
But silence is not peace.
And love that costs me my voice isn’t love. It’s survival. I done surviving. I’m ready to thrive.
This post isn’t about blame.
It’s about inclusion.
I am finally including myself in the story.
If your gut reaction is to defend, deny, or make this about you, I understand.
That’s been the rhythm of our family. Rhythms can be tough to break. But I won’t stand for outdated systems that don’t serve.
So, I’m asking for something different this time.
Please read all the way through.
Not to respond. Not to fix.
But to witness.
What I Found in 3 Days in York That I Didn’t Find in 26 Years in the U.S.
In America, I spent most of my life performing.
Smiling when I was hurting.
Tiptoeing around everyone else’s emotions while suppressing my own.
My nervous system never learned peace, only hyper-awareness.
Out of necessity.
I watched rooms.
I read moods.
I predicted people, outcomes and explosions before they happened.
Knowing how they would feel before they even did themselves.
But in York, just three days, I felt something I’d never experienced back home:
Space to feel without being managed.
Presence without pressure.
Kindness without fear of consequence.
The Day That Changed Everything
I was sitting outside a school, crying.
In the U.S., that would’ve caused a scene.
A parent might’ve called the police.
A stranger might’ve judged or scolded me.
But in York, a teacher approached and asked softly:
“Are you here to pick someone up?”
That was it. No suspicion. No panic. Just a human question.
I said, “I’m just having a bit of a cry.”
And he replied,
“Is everything alright then?”
That interaction was more healing than a decade of polite small talk in the States.
It reminded me: humanity is possible.
We can witness pain without trying to erase it because it makes us uncomfortable.
We can ask, instead of assume.
To My Mother — The One Who Always Worried
You loved me. I know you do.
But your worry suffocated me.
Your anxiety wrapped itself around every room we entered.
You threw your feelings like grenades, and I was expected to catch them.
Even when I was already carrying my own. Even when I was already bleeding.
You made me responsible for your peace.
When I cried, you panicked.
When I struggled, you made it about your fear.
When I told the truth, you collapsed.
And when I tried to speak, your pain took up all the air in the room. So I stopped speaking.
If you try to make this about yourself, I won’t defend, explain, or comfort you.
Because this moment isn’t about protecting you from my truth.
It’s about protecting me from your cycle.
To My Father — The One Who Watched in Silence
You didn’t yell. You didn’t throw shame.
You just… didn’t step in.
You saw the storms, and stayed in your chair.
You left me in the crossfire.
And whether it was fear or passivity, I can’t say.
But the result was the same:
I wasn’t protected.
And I learned to protect myself, alone.
You saw it.
You heard it.
And you turned away.
You thought:
“She’s emotional.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Let them figure it out.”
But we didn’t figure it out.
I figured it out alone.
And I did it quietly, while carrying the grief of not being protected by the one person I hoped would fight for me.
To Layla — The One Who Believed
You saw me.
Not the version of me I’d shaped to keep the peace, but the real one.
The cracked one. The unguarded one.
And you didn’t flinch.
You didn’t try to fix me.
You didn’t control, or collapse, or guilt.
You just stood there, solid, ethereal, and still. Shining with religious belief.
And for the first time, I understood what it meant to be believed in without condition.
You were the carrot and the stick. The challenge I needed.
You became the reason I rose, not because you demanded it, but because your belief made it possible.
Even if nothing else comes of it, you gave me that.
You changed everything.
Even if you never say my name again,
Even if I stand alone at the end of this story,
I’m still grateful.
Because that kind of belief is sacred.
It gave me the strength to stop hiding.
And I am changed because of it.
To My Mother — A Roadmap, If You’re Still With Me
I know this may be hard to read.
You may feel misunderstood.
You may feel hurt, or angry, or heartbroken.
So let me offer you something, a roadmap, not for justification, but for connection.
If your gut reaction is:
- “This made me feel like a bad mom.”
- “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
- “You’re exaggerating. It wasn’t like that.”
- ”You misunderstood my intention”
- ”It’s my job as a mother to worry”
I understand.
But I invite you to pause.
This is not a courtroom.
I am not presenting evidence.
I am revealing a wound. One I’ve carried alone for too long.
What I don’t need:
- A defense.
- A denial.
- A speech about how this made you feel.
What I would welcome:
- “I believe you.”
- “I am truly and sincerely sorry”
- “I’m willing to listen if you’re willing to keep sharing.”
That’s all.
I’m not asking you to go back and undo the past.
I’m asking you to be present now, without trying to make this about your pain, or how my feelings make you feel.
To the Boy I Used to Be & The Man At War With Himself
You did nothing wrong.
You were not too sensitive.
You were not a burden.
You were a child trying to survive in a home that didn’t always feel safe TO feel.
You’ve earned your voice.
You’ve earned your truth.
And you don’t owe anyone your silence to keep their image intact.
You never enlisted.
But you were drafted early.
into the battle between what you felt,
and what you were told you were allowed to feel.
Taught to be strong.
Taught to be good.
Taught to be quiet.
Every time he cried and was told to stop.
he learned emotion was the enemy.
Each time you were made responsible for someone else’s pain or discomfort.
You became a medic for wounds he didn’t cause.
And somewhere along the line, you stopped asking for help.
You put on the armor.
You called it “normal.”
You called it “fine.”
But deep down?
You were bleeding out.
This Is Not a Burn Letter
I’m not here to tear anyone down.
But if truth sets something on fire,
maybe it needed to burn.
Because I am ready to rebuild.
Not a perfect life, but an honest one.
If this post creates discomfort, so be it.
I didn’t write it to be palatable.
I wrote it to be freeing.
And for the first time in my life.
I am no longer hiding.
It’s best to speak.
If You’re Reading This and Thinking, “I Should Call to Make Sure He’s Okay”
Don’t.
- You’ll be rudely interrupting my peace.
- I’m more okay than I’ve ever been. and it’s because I finally said all of this without needing your permission.
- If you’re calling out of guilt or confusion instead of curiosity and care, I’ll feel it. And then I’ll hang up.
- I didn’t write this for you to fix me. I wrote it because I finally stopped trying to fix everyone else.
Here’s to starting again.
If you really want to show me love?
Listen. Don’t react. Reflect. Don’t rush.
And if you still want to say something after that?
Write it down. Sit with it. Longer than you think you need to.
And after that?
Ask yourself. Is this about me, or is this about him?
If it’s about me, wait.
And after that?
If it’s about you, maybe keep it.
Maybe start your own post.
Truth is sometimes packaged as rigid, controlling, and closed. To accept a set of beliefs uncritically.
- It says, “Believe this or else.”
- It offers all the answers, demands agreement, and claims sole ownership of what’s right.
- It builds walls, controls behavior, and creates followers.
But real truth, living truth, invites.
It says, “Here’s what I’ve found. What does it stir in you?”
It doesn’t demand answers; it awakens better questions.
It doesn’t try to control you, it helps you remember who you really are.