Opinion piece: Barbara Lee
Like a lot of people, I grew up believing that conflict was something to avoid at all costs. Complaining made you "difficult." Speaking up made you a troublemaker. And if you were a woman doing it? The label stuck even faster. So for a long time, I said nothing.
I paid the hairdresser even when my hair looked nothing like what I'd asked for. I didn't dare tell the butcher to swap out that sad-looking chicken breast for a better one. And when the deli counter gave me 40 grams more than I ordered, I just quietly nodded and said it was fine.
I stayed silent when a service wasn't thorough enough, or when something turned out differently than we'd agreed. I'd go home and stew about it alone — replaying the scene in my head, imagining all the sharp, confident things I should have said. Somehow my imaginary self was always much more articulate than my real one.
But why did I keep doing this? Why didn't I learn after the first time that speaking up was actually the better option?
Part of me didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings or create an awkward moment. But another part of me was increasingly frustrated that I wasn't getting what I'd paid for. For a long time, I couldn't figure out how to hold both of those things at once.
It took me a while to realize they don't have to cancel each other out
Raising a concern is not the same as picking a fight. It doesn't mean raising your voice, assigning blame, or "making a scene." It simply means saying: this isn't quite right for me. It means standing up for your own interests.
That sounds obvious. In practice, it's surprisingly hard — especially when there's a personal element to the relationship. You don't want to upset your hairdresser. You don't want to create extra work for the painter. You don't want to be seen as a difficult customer.
My turning point came when I started noticing that my silence wasn't neutral. I wasn't "letting it go and moving on." I was carrying the tension with me — sitting with a low-level bad feeling for days, something that a single sentence could have resolved on the spot.
So I started experimenting
At first, in very small situations. A gentle comment here, a soft bit of feedback there. Then, gradually, more intentionally. I realized the real question wasn't whether to say something — it was how to say it.
What started working for me was calm, factual communication.
I stopped judging the other person. Instead of saying "this is wrong," I'd say "this isn't quite what I had in mind." I described what wasn't working for me — and what I'd like instead.
When the moment allowed it, I'd add a touch of lightness. Not to brush the problem aside, but to ease the tension — to make it easier for the other person to acknowledge the issue without feeling like they'd completely failed.
And perhaps most importantly: I stayed open to finding a solution together. I wasn't just delivering criticism — I was making space for a conversation. That changes the whole dynamic. It feels nothing like complaining.
But the most surprising discovery wasn't any of that.
It was that the world didn't fall apart.
Truly. People didn't take offense en masse. I didn't suddenly become "that difficult customer." In fact, the reactions were often genuinely positive. Some people thanked me for saying something. Others fixed the problem immediately. And even when the outcome wasn't perfect, at least a real conversation had started.
In return, something very concrete shifted in my life: I started actually getting what I paid for.
And alongside that, my anxiety quietly decreased. I no longer spend the lead-up to an appointment dreading what I'll do if I don't like it — because I know that if I don't like it, I can say so.
It's a completely different kind of security
And maybe even more valuable than that: the post-event mental replay stopped. That exhausting internal monologue where you go over the same situation again and again, winding yourself up further each time. It's not just wasted energy — over time, it's genuinely draining.
Since I started saying these things out loud instead of chewing on them in silence, I feel noticeably lighter.
That said, I won't pretend speaking up always feels comfortable. There's still a flicker of tension sometimes before I open my mouth. But I've learned that this brief discomfort costs far less than the long, slow ache of staying quiet. So I keep practicing. Who knows — maybe one day I'll be able to say what I think without even a second's hesitation.
