I sat alone on my kindergarten schoolyard while Yvette (full name known but withheld to protect the innocent) shared her new Avon, Her Prettiness Secret Tower, castle-shaped rollerball perfume with a chosen circle of girls. Without a single word, I knew I wasn’t invited into the kingdom.
I have been able to read a room for as long as I can remember. By the time I was six, I knew the power of what wasn’t being said. A glance, a whisper, or nothing at all—I knew exactly what it meant about me. I never asked. I never confirmed. I simply knew. Picking up on silent cues was second nature… and my first source of anxiety.
I was convinced that if I had something equally shiny, equally irresistible as Yvette’s perfume, she’d notice me. With the help of our neighborhood Avon Lady, I built my own tiny cologne-bottle empire: the lamb, the deer, the boot—and, of course, the tower. At recess, I casually flashed a bottle, pretending it was no big deal, hoping someone—anyone—would care. No one did. And in that moment, a quiet certainty that I was “less than” seeped in. No one pointed a finger and called me a loser—I decided I didn’t belong. And that, my friends, is how Odessa was born.
Meet Odessa. Her silence is deadly. She has perfected the art of the eyebrow raise and can deliver shame with one well-timed audible sigh. The ultimate inner critic, she doesn’t need words—just a glance, a pause, and a side-eye sharp enough to make you rethink everything.
Odessa doesn’t raise her voice—silence does her work. Growing up, my family didn’t yell or confront each other with disagreements. Instead, there was an invisible weight of disappointment. Rooms felt heavy without anyone saying a word. Odessa grew strong in that silence, absorbing everything in the room, assigning meaning to silence, and turning it into self-doubt and comparison. She held me back before I would ask for help, for fear of appearing incompetent, and would have me try on at least eight outfits before meeting friends for a casual dinner.
She may sound like a mean girl, but she’s not—she’s a protector. Shielding me from the pain of rejection I felt on that schoolyard all those years ago, she issues judgment before anyone else can. As an adult, I learned I could quiet her silence by surrounding myself with louder critics—the ones whose disapproval was obvious. Oddly, it was restful. I didn’t have to stay on high alert; disappointment was right there in plain sight. But that is no way to live, and as I withdrew from that noise, Odessa returned. She is still alive and kicking, and will always be a part of me. Most of the time, I don’t realize it’s her silence beneath my thoughts but learning to recognize her is part of this journey.
