What do you do when you’re completely ignored? Do you get angry? Make a scene? Or do you retreat to a corner and cry? What did you think? What did it do to you?

I was surprised. I felt powerless and irritated. Until yesterday, when an email landed in my inbox. We’re going again! I straighten my back and sign up. The red line, take 2, June 15, The Hague. I know full well that my presence or absence won’t make a big impact. But my inner judge is harsher. Staying silent feels like agreeing. And that’s something I can no longer ignore.
That’s why I’m taking to the streets again. Because the boundary of my conscience now lies closer than my need for comfort. And no, this blog is not just about Gaza. Or about politics.
It’s about choosing whether or not to speak up. About the choice to stay silent. And what that does to you over time.

We don’t just stay silent about big global issues. We do it at home, at work, in conversations with friends or family. When someone makes a cutting remark, and you decide to just let it go. When your manager or colleague dumps something over the fence again, and you accept it as yours to handle. When someone crosses a line, and you brush it off—not wanting to be difficult or spoil the mood.

We often stay silent out of a mix of caution, doubt, and self-protection. Because we want to avoid conflict, we fear judgment or rejection. What if what you say isn’t accurate? Or it lands the wrong way? What if you’re too harsh, or you offend someone?
What if people no longer find you nice/smart/fun/whatever? Better to stay quiet then. Keep your head down. That feels safer.
At least, it seems that way. But in the meantime, you’re depleting yourself. The tension builds, and fatigue grows. You feel a distance between who you are, what you believe, and how you behave.
And that gnawing question: am I still staying true to what really matters to me? The cost of silence often becomes clear only later. When people around you have gotten used to how flexible you are. How easily you adapt. How you always think of others. The result? You lose yourself. You get tired of adjusting, swallowing your words, and brushing things off with a laugh. And besides being tired, sometimes you get cynical. A little bitter.

We often talk about setting boundaries as if it’s black-and-white.
You either do it, or you don’t. And that’s exactly where it can go wrong—because there are many kinds of boundaries. Everyone knows being boundaryless isn’t great. You race past yourself, burn out, and in extreme cases, it becomes downright destructive. Always saying yes. Completely erasing yourself.
But also failing to manage your own behavior—excessive drinking, eating, binge-watching, etc. On the other end: overly rigid boundaries aren’t so great either.
The my-way-or-the-highway approach. You shut down and block everything out. Meanwhile, you risk alienating people and isolating yourself. Before you know it, people label you as a jerk, when you were actually just tired or hurt. And then there are the murky boundaries. Vague, implicit, inconsistent, unspoken-but-still-expected boundaries. You send signals, but no one knows what you mean. As if people are supposed to read your mind.

Luckily, there are also healthy boundaries. I often describe them as a form of tough love. Not harsh, not vague, but clear.
Boundaries meant to protect the relationship. Respectful towards yourself and the other. Because true connection only becomes possible when you clearly show where you begin and end. What kind of boundaries do you set? And what do they get you?
Are you heard (truly heard), or only when you turn the volume up to ten? Does the way you communicate your boundaries contribute to what you hope to achieve? Or are you mostly trying to minimize the damage?

A boundary isn’t a wall, it’s an invitation to clarity. A way to keep space for yourself and the other. Setting boundaries, speaking up, standing for something—it all sounds good, maybe even obvious, but it rarely feels comfortable. Sometimes it means disappointing someone. Or a friendship shifts. Sometimes, it simply hurts. But the rewards of being honest far outweigh the cost of staying silent.

Speaking up is rarely comfortable, but it does bring you home to yourself. You take the place you deserve. Not with perfect words or untouchable positions, but as someone who dares to stand for what truly matters to you. So if you feel there’s something that needs to be said about injustice, your work, a relationship, your limits. Start small. One time. One sentence. One boundary. Not to convince anyone, but out of respect for yourself.