Silence as a systemic error
Throughout my life, I have repeatedly found myself in situations where I was judged superficially by people who did not know me at all. The judgment came quickly, almost automatically, before any question was asked, before any conversation could take place, before anyone made an effort to look deeper. It was judgment based on impression rather than relationship. And almost always, it resulted in loss.
I lost in school, I lost at work, I lost in interpersonal relationships. Not in a dramatic or spectacular way, but quietly, invisibly, systematically. I lost competitions I did not even realize I was participating in. I lost to people who spoke faster, presented themselves more confidently, and knew how to sell their abilities better. Not because they were more competent, but because they fit the rules of the game more effectively.
Among strangers, I am shy, introverted, withdrawn. I need time to feel safe, to acclimate, to speak freely. I cannot function in a mode of instant self-presentation. And the contemporary world—especially institutional systems—is a world of immediacy. You are expected to show yourself before you have time to feel yourself. You are expected to speak before you have time to think.
From the perspective of social psychology, silence is often interpreted as absence: absence of competence, absence of engagement, absence of personality. Yet silence very often means the opposite—an excess of reflection, responsibility for words, sensitivity, awareness. But systems have little patience for excess. They prefer simplification, shortcuts, labels.
This mechanism was already visible in school. As a teenager, I stood out in appearance and personality. That alone was enough to trigger projections. People assumed that because I was attractive and withdrawn, I must be vain or arrogant. It was an assumption completely detached from reality, but socially convenient. Projection works precisely this way—it does not require verification; it relies on emotional reaction.
Jealousy rarely presents itself openly. More often, it disguises itself as criticism, concern, or moral judgment. In my case, it also took the form of abuse from adults. I was bullied by teachers. Today we would call it mobbing, but at the time it was barely acknowledged as a concept. The abuse was real, prolonged, and systemically ignored.
One teacher who particularly targeted me had previously driven a student to suicide. Later, she turned her abuse toward me. She was eventually stopped—partially—through intervention by the school administration. But there were no real consequences, no systemic reflection. There was silence.
From a sociological perspective, this is a textbook example of structural violence: an authority figure discharging personal frustration onto dependent individuals, while the system normalizes the situation instead of protecting the vulnerable. Such experiences do not end when school ends. They remain in the body, in stress responses, in patterns of social functioning.
The anthill, creativity, and wars of ego
The more a person develops, the more they tend to stand out. Development does not consist solely in acquiring skills; it also involves changing one’s way of thinking. And that is often uncomfortable for others. Social systems—schools, organizations, professional environments—favor predictability. You are expected to think systemically, schematically, in one direction. You are expected not to ask too many questions.
Creativity, understood as the ability to create something new out of chaos, becomes a threat in such a context. It provokes anxiety because it escapes control. People fear what they do not understand—not because it is objectively dangerous, but because it destabilizes their sense of certainty.
Social life often resembles an anthill. Everyone has an assigned role, place, and path. When someone begins to ask questions, to challenge the status quo, they put a stick into the anthill. The reaction is almost always the same—attack. From a sociological standpoint, this is a defensive mechanism protecting the group from destabilization.
Within this context, ego wars emerge. They are omnipresent, though rarely named directly. These are conflicts in which the goal is not resolution or understanding, but validation of one’s own worth at the expense of another. Psychologically, they function as compensatory mechanisms—attempts to silence internal insecurity through dominance.
The paradox is that in ego wars, the one who “wins” often loses. Victory in such a conflict comes at the cost of peace, energy, and integrity. A truly calm person is not calm because they never fought. They are calm because they have fought many battles and learned that not raising the sword is also a strategy.
Not every battle is worth fighting. Sometimes the greatest victory lies in refusing to fight at all. From a sociological perspective, this is an act of stepping outside a game designed to be violent. From a psychological perspective, it is a way of protecting the nervous system.
Anxiety, the body, and regulation instead of control
The anxiety I experienced was not theoretical. It was deeply physical. There were periods when I did not leave my home for days. There were panic attacks in public spaces—standing in the middle of a supermarket—when my body stopped responding and the only possible action was to lie down on the floor.
There were times when I lay under a blanket for hours, unable to move. This was not a matter of lacking motivation. It was the response of a nervous system overloaded by years of tension, lack of safety, and constant adaptation.
From the outside, no one would have guessed it. An online image reveals nothing about psychological state. This is one of the greatest problems of contemporary visual culture—confusing appearance with reality.
I consciously chose not to take anti-anxiety medication. I knew it could provide relief, but I also knew how addictive it can be. I did not want to replace one problem with another. Instead, I focused on regulation rather than control.
Meditation, a diet based on fresh, seasonal foods, journaling, contact with nature, walking, exercise when my condition allowed it—all of these were attempts to rebuild a relationship with my body. I completely eliminated alcohol, one of the most destructive neurotoxins, despite its social acceptance.
Without pharmacology, I learned one crucial principle: good days must be used fully, because bad days can significantly slow the healing process. This is not a romantic narrative about willpower, but a realistic understanding of how the nervous system functions.
Relationships, personal branding, and choosing authenticity
The same mechanisms that operate within institutions and social systems also govern romantic relationships. Dating and first encounters have become spaces of instant evaluation. First impressions, confidence, and the ability to talk about oneself are paramount. Shy, anxious, time-needing individuals often drop out early—not because they lack value, but because they cannot function within the economy of first impressions.
Shyness is interpreted as disinterest, calmness as coldness, nervousness as unattractiveness. Relationships increasingly resemble markets, where packaging outweighs substance.
In this context, personal branding becomes more than a tool—it begins to replace identity. People are taught how to talk about values before they have lived them, how to build narratives before internal coherence exists.
We often meet people who look flawless and speak eloquently about ethics, growth, and relationships. Over time, it becomes clear that behind these declarations there is no depth—only words. Sensitive individuals notice this more quickly because they listen not only to what someone says, but to how they live.
At some point, a fundamental question emerges: are people who dismiss us without wanting to look deeper truly a value added to our lives? Meaningful relationships are those in which we do not have to change ourselves, negotiate our identity, or adapt to others’ expectations.
Perhaps the issue is not learning how to sell ourselves better. Perhaps it is about stopping the act of selling altogether. In a world built on appearances, authenticity is a risk—but it is also the only path to relationships that have substance.
Simulacra and artificial worlds
When we look more closely at the world we inhabit, it becomes increasingly difficult to claim that the problem is merely superficiality or lack of attentiveness. What we are facing is not simply falseness, but a reality that has lost its reference point. A form that no longer hides content, but exists where content has already disappeared.
Here, the concept of simulacra described by Jean Baudrillard becomes strikingly relevant. A simulacrum is not a false copy of something real. It is a sign without an original. A representation that refers not to reality, but only to other representations.
In a world of simulacra, authenticity is no longer hidden—it is replaced.
Authenticity functions as an aesthetic, a style, a learned language. We speak of values, growth, trauma, mindfulness, relationships. We learn how to sound sincere. But often these words are not rooted in lived experience. They become elements of a cultural costume.
This is not individual hypocrisy; it is a systemic condition. Language circulates faster than experience. Narratives precede reality. Identity is no longer discovered—it is produced.
Media, personal branding, and self-presentation culture no longer show better versions of ourselves; they manufacture identities that replace the self entirely. These artificial worlds are coherent visually and narratively, but disconnected from bodily experience, time, and genuine relationship.
Sensitive and introverted individuals often feel this dissonance intuitively. They sense when intensity appears before trust, when language outruns experience. This awareness often pushes them into further withdrawal.
Silence becomes suspicious. Pauses become uncomfortable. Absence of immediate response is seen as disengagement. And yet silence may be the last place where experience has not yet been turned into performance.
A bridge: simulacra, anxiety, and the human body
Here, a crucial bridge emerges between philosophy, sociology, and psychology. The human nervous system was not designed for simulated reality. The body does not respond to narrative—it responds to safety or threat, coherence or contradiction.
When we live in a world that demands constant performance, the body remains in a state of vigilance. It accumulates tension until it manifests as anxiety, panic, exhaustion, or withdrawal.
From this perspective, social anxiety is not a personal defect but a signal—a message that environmental demands have exceeded human regulatory capacity. The pace of relationships, emotional intensity, and expectation of constant availability surpass what the nervous system can safely sustain.
In dating culture, simulacra are particularly dominant. Two narratives meet rather than two people. When both are simulations, the relationship may feel intense and fast, but collapses under silence, uncertainty, or difference.
Personal branding becomes a factory of simulacra—teaching how to sound authentic without teaching how to endure uncertainty or remain present without packaging.
Many experiences of rejection arise not because individuals lack value, but because they do not fit artificial worlds where narrative coherence matters more than inner coherence.
On unconditional value
Rejection does not always reflect who we are. Often, it reflects a world unable to accommodate what requires time, silence, and presence. A world that prioritizes signs over experiences, narratives over relationships.
In such a world, it is easy to confuse lack of fit with lack of worth. This is one of the most damaging mistakes we can internalize.
Human value is not conditional. It does not depend on selection, approval, visibility, or performance. It is inherent—rooted in the mere fact of being human, of possessing a body, emotions, consciousness, and the capacity for connection.
Love should not be a reward for correct self-presentation. Recognition should not be reserved for those who sell themselves best. Belonging should not require abandoning oneself.
Remembering this does not make the world easier—but it prevents us from importing its logic into our inner lives. It allows us to separate rejection from identity.
In a world of artificial realities, remaining human—quiet, imperfect, sometimes anxious, but real—may be the most radical act of all.
And that alone is enough to deserve love.
Love,
Laura
