FER CAGGIANO

I’ve taken a vow of silence a few times in my life, but this time, it wasn’t by choice. I got sick and lost my voice. The realizations I had then and now couldn’t be more different.

When I took a vow, I was on a spiritual journey. I wanted to learn and grow. I discovered how much energy goes into speaking and learned to appreciate silence. It taught me to observe people beyond their words.

But this time, my voice left me when I needed it the most. Life has been overwhelming lately, and I thought meeting friends and networking for work opportunities would lift my spirits.

For the first time, I asked a parent from school for a favor: I sent my son to a sleepover so I could enjoy the events without worrying about rushing home. As a solo mom, I don’t get weekends off—or any days off, for that matter. Treating myself to something I wanted felt rare and precious.

It was supposed to be wonderful.

Until it wasn’t.

Public transportation in Miami isn’t great, and I don’t own a car. So, I called an Uber. When you’re between jobs and haven’t earned much in six months, every Uber ride feels like a luxury you can’t afford. Still, I was hopeful.

I arrived at the event and waited half an hour before a friend arrived. She hugged me, and I managed to tell her, through lip-reading, that I had lost my voice. I listened to her updates and watched a video of her son, and when I tried to show some photos of my kid, it was a bunch of tapping on her arms to try and share a little from my side because her attention simply wasn’t on me. Others arrived, she told them I couldn’t talk and briefly told them my name —and then, she turned her back on me. I became invisible.

Another friend showed up. I was thrilled to see her; we’d been talking about catching up for months. She gave me a long hug, and I managed to ask how she was. She told a few stories but seemed distracted, likely high, and more focused on networking. After that, she didn’t look me in the eye again. I tried to share something, but I became invisible so fast that I stopped trying.

I spent the next hour alone in a room full of people. Only one person saw me when I came to say hi—a friend who still makes eye contact. We laughed for a moment about my situation, and he suggested I use a note on my phone to communicate. But there was no one left to try. I felt like a ghost.

I stepped outside and cried for an hour, debating whether to stay or leave. Meanwhile, I was texting with someone who had borrowed my digital screens to display some art. She wanted my help, but I told her I wasn’t well and couldn’t speak, so I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, and I was thinking about going home. She ignored me for an hour before writing again. Eventually, I gave up and called an Uber. She blamed me for leaving because she was going to pick me up to help her, and trashed me in DMs.

I went home and cried myself to sleep.

The next day, something even stranger happened. At the grocery store, I was still invisible. In the checkout line, three people cut in front of me. Unable to speak, I let them go. To make matters worse, another woman yelled at me to go to the back of the line, claiming she hadn’t seen me there. I am small, but I am not so tiny that people shouldn’t see me.

My conclusion? People have forgotten how to see others. Humanity has become so self-centered that few notice what’s happening outside their own bubble. They make assumptions, and that is the only valid perspective in their minds. People are content in their own worlds, so focused on “me” and “what I want,” with little regard for how others are feeling.

I wish people were sensitive and caring enough that words weren’t necessary. But until we learn to truly see one another, we must use our voices when we can and sometimes scream to make ourselves heard and to speak up for those who can’t.

Thank you for reading.

Much love,

Fer