My Sacred Boundary of Silence (politics, viewpoints & human rights)

I have always considered myself an independent thinker. Not independent as a slogan or a brand, but independent in the way a tree grows its own branches… rooted, deliberate, and unwilling to bend to every passing gust.

I do not label myself liberal or conservative, Democrat or Republican, leftist or centrist. I do not label myself at all.

Labels can be convenient shorthand for strangers or surveys, but they rarely hold up under the weight of a real, thinking, evolving human life.

When I approach issues… whether voting, supporting a cause, or forming an opinion… I do not skim headlines or inherit viewpoints. I research heavily. I read past statements, examine actions, watch for patterns over time. I look at what people promised, what they delivered, and what that reveals about their character.

For me, politics is not a team sport… it’s a long, painstaking evaluation of reality. And because of that, my views shift. People shift. History shifts. And for someone like me… who values truth and nuance over slogans… labeling myself would feel dishonest, like trying to trap a living stream in a jar.

This approach to thinking also shapes how I interact with others. Someone recently told me it’s “weird” that I don’t openly talk about politics or my beliefs. They don’t understand what I mean when I say I only discuss such things in certain situations, with certain people. The truth is this… I don’t avoid political conversations because I’m uninformed. I avoid them because they are rarely safe spaces. I don’t like contention… not in the sense of avoiding disagreement at all costs, but in the sense of avoiding pointless battles.

When you share an opinion, especially on politics, religion, or human rights, there’s an unspoken hope… that the person listening will at least try to understand you. No matter what you label yourself. You just hope that the other person listening will try to understand …Not necessarily agree, but listen. Most people are not in that headspace. Most people hear a belief they disagree with and immediately load their rebuttal, their talking points, their moral outrage. They don’t see your viewpoint as an insight to consider… they see it as an error to correct.

And then … that’s when a conversation stops being a conversation. It becomes a performance, an attack or a debate stage. Anxiety, fear, and anger enter the room. I have no interest in living my life on that stage.

Some argue it’s “weird” not to talk about politics, because politics “is life.” But that assumption is built on a misunderstanding… that closeness requires disclosure of opinions. It does not. Closeness is not built on having the same political stance or even knowing the other’s stance. It’s built on trust, respect, empathy, shared experiences, and mutual care. You can share meals, dreams, griefs, laughter, art, and memories with someone without once comparing voter records. You can support each other through illness, celebrate milestones, raise children side by side, or build communities without ever knowing how the other feels about a given bill or candidate. I have seen it with my own eyes.

In fact the absence of political sparring often allows for deeper connection. Without the constant temptation to debate, you can encounter someone as a whole person rather than as a bundle of positions. We don’t need to interrogate every friend, family member, or neighbor for their stances before deciding whether they’re worthy of kindness. We can simply be kind.

For me, feeling safe is not optional… it’s essential. If I’m going to share my thoughts on something deeply important, I need to know the listener will meet me with curiosity rather than combativeness. When someone says, “I don’t agree with you, but that’s interesting,” I feel respected. When someone says, “I think you’re wrong, but I’d like to understand why you think this way,” I feel open to dialogue. Those kinds of responses are rare. What’s far more common is this… you share an opinion, the other person interrupts or launches into why you’re wrong, and the conversation escalates into tension, frustration, or exhaustion. It stops being about ideas. It becomes about winning, scoring points, or shaming the other person into agreement. That is not a conversation. That is a low-level form of violence. And before I die, I don’t want to fill my life with low-level violence disguised as discussion.

This essay is my boundary, stated plainly. I will not discuss politics, religion, or human rights issues with people unless I feel safe doing so. Safe does not mean “they agree with me.” Safe means “they know how to disagree without demeaning.” This is not about hiding. This is about self-respect. This is about stewardship of my own energy, my own peace. This is about recognizing that not every opinion needs to be aired to every audience. Some people may call that avoidance. I call it discernment.

In my life there are only a few people who consistently offer me that kind of safety… my husband, a cousin of mine, occasionally my sister. And we all have different opinions when it comes to these issues … With them, I can speak without bracing for impact. With them, disagreement doesn’t feel like an ambush. That should not be rare. But it is. And so, I protect my energy. I speak selectively. I share when the soil feels fertile, not when the ground is already salted with tension.

This boundary is not only about me… it’s about how we as a culture think about closeness. We have begun to equate intimacy with total transparency, as though to be “real” friends we must know everything about each other’s stances. But intimacy does not require full access. It requires mutual respect. Just as we don’t demand to know the medical records or deepest traumas of every friend, we do not need to demand their political maps. We can honor the dignity of someone’s privacy and still be close. What’s truly “weird” is not my silence. What’s weird is thinking that disagreement automatically grants you the right to demand an argument.

I’m not saying political conversations are bad. They can be beautiful when done well… when both people come with curiosity, humility, and the willingness to listen. I have had a handful of such conversations in my life. They left me feeling not drained, but enriched. But that level of mutual openness is rare. It requires a shared commitment to empathy. It requires both people to understand that being heard is not the same as being agreed with. Until those conditions are met, silence is not cowardice. Silence is wisdom.

I am an independent thinker. I do heavy research. I care deeply about human rights, about fairness, about truth. But I will not sacrifice my peace to perform my beliefs for people who are not prepared to hear them with an open heart. My silence is not indifference. My silence is not ignorance. My silence is a boundary.

If you are reading this, know that this is not an invitation to debate. It is an explanation of who I am and how I live. This is my line. This is my wish. This is my life. We do not need to talk about politics to be close. We need kindness to be close. We need humility to be close. We need to let each other be whole, complex, evolving human beings without forcing each other into the corners of our own convictions. If that is “weird,” then I choose to be weird.