23/08/2025
They say silence is golden.
But in my marriage, silence became a weapon.
At first, I didn’t see it. I thought my husband’s quiet nature was maturity. You know how people say, “At least he doesn’t shout or raise his hand at you”? That was me. I used to boast to my friends, “I’m lucky, my husband never yells. He just goes quiet.”
I thought that was wisdom. I thought it meant he had self-control.
I didn’t realize that silence when used as punishment cuts deeper than words ever could.
It started small.
The first year of our marriage, if we disagreed, he would stop talking to me for a few hours. I didn’t mind. I told myself, “He probably needs space. Not everyone likes to argue.”
But hours turned into days.
Days when he wouldn’t greet me in the morning.
Days when he would sit at the table, eat the food I cooked, and walk away without saying a word.
Days when he would lie beside me in bed, yet I felt like I was sharing my pillow with a stranger miles away.
I tried to break the ice.
“Good morning, honey.”
Silence.
“Do you want tea or coffee?”
Nothing.
The silence was louder than shouting. Louder than insults. Louder than even a slap.
At first, I begged.
I would cry, kneel beside him, and say “I’m sorry,” even when I didn’t know what I had done. I thought, “Maybe if I humble myself, he’ll come back to me. Maybe this is how marriages work - you learn to bend so the other person doesn’t break.”
And after days of freezing me out, he would finally speak:
“See? You know how to make peace when you want to.”
And I would smile weakly, relieved the torture was over. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t peace. It was surrender. He was teaching me something dangerous: that the only way to end the silence was to give in - apologize, shrink, and accept blame.
And each time I did, I lost a little piece of myself.
Then came the words. Words that cut deeper than the silence.
Whenever I tried to express how I felt, he turned my feelings into weapons against me:
“So you’re saying I’m a bad husband?”
“If I’m that terrible, maybe I should just leave and free you.”
“Do you want the children to grow up without a father? Is that what you want?”
Those words sent me into panic. I would quickly hold his hands and say, “No, no, please, that’s not what I mean. I just want us to talk.”
But he didn’t want to talk. He wanted control.
He wanted me guilty, apologetic, afraid.
And I gave him exactly that because I was terrified of losing my marriage.
Soon, I started walking on eggshells.
Every day, I measured my words.
Should I ask him about money? Or would that trigger silence?
Should I ask him to help with the children? Or would that bring punishment?
Should I laugh too loudly at something? Or would that annoy him?
Imagine living with someone, yet feeling invisible.
Imagine serving, cooking, smiling, only to be treated as though you don’t exist.
That was my reality. And in that reality, I was shrinking.
One night, after a long week of silence, I sat alone in the kitchen. I had cooked his favorite soup. He ate it quietly, pushed his chair back, and walked away without a glance at me. The sound of the bedroom door closing behind him was the loudest sound in the house.
And something in me snapped.
I whispered to myself, “This is not love.”
That night, I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. Instead, I opened my Bible, and my eyes fell on a verse that struck me like lightning:
“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” (Ephesians 5:25)
Christ’s love was sacrificial, not manipulative. His love was filled with grace, not punishment. He never withheld His presence to make me beg.
That night, I prayed differently. Not, “Lord, make him speak to me.”
But, “Lord, heal me. Teach me to see myself the way You see me, not the way his silence defines me.”
The next morning, he gave me his usual cold shoulder. I looked at him and, for the first time, I didn’t beg. I didn’t explain.
Instead, I said calmly, “Your silence doesn’t control me anymore. If you don’t want to talk, that’s your choice. But I will no longer punish myself for it.”
He froze. He looked at me shocked. Maybe, for the first time, he realized his weapon had lost its power.
I won’t lie - it wasn’t easy after that. The silence still came. The manipulation still showed up. But every time, I reminded myself:
“I am not invisible. I am not voiceless. I am not defined by his silence. I am loved by God, and His love speaks louder than any man’s silence.”
My marriage didn’t collapse overnight. It crumbled little by little, under the weight of unspoken words and manipulative control. But what was meant for my destruction, God used for my awakening.
Because I learned something powerful:
Silence can scream.
But truth - God’s truth - speaks louder.
And no woman should ever live as though her worth depends on how quickly she can apologize just for existing.
Thanks for reading “Silent Grip” by Joy Chinonyerem Godwin-Iloh II
