The Loudest Person

There’s a myth I carried for a long time ... that the loudest person wins. That if you want something badly enough, raising your voice will get you noticed, get you chosen, get you through the door.

Seattle airport is where that belief nearly broke me.

I had flown in from Japan to surprise my father for his 60th birthday. My mom and I had planned it for months, the perfect moment waiting at the end of the trip. I had paid more than four thousand dollars to make it happen, and then... the flights started canceling. One by one, my options disappeared. Nine hours stranded in limbo. By the time I reached Seattle, there was only one last flight that could get me there in time.

It was full.

They told me I’d be booked on the next flight the following morning. Calmly. Coldly. As if I hadn’t just spent a small fortune. As if I wasn’t standing there with everything on the line.

I lost it.

I raised my voice. I shouted. I demanded. I poured all that urgency and desperation onto the counter. The staff stayed cold, barely reactive, their apologies empty. And that only fueled me more. The louder I got, the more invisible I felt. Until airport security began walking toward me.

And then ... a shift. A pilot, heading home after his shift, overheard the entire ordeal. He stepped forward. Quietly. Calmly. He gave me his seat. Just like that, I was through. My voice hadn’t won me the room. His silence had.

But the damage was already done. That night was the catalyst for my first MS episode. The stress didn’t just rattle my nerves ... it rattled my body.

Looking back now, it’s complicated. Do I regret it? Yes and no. Because sometimes the loudest person is heard. But sometimes the loudest person becomes a target. Sometimes the loudest person is treated as a threat. And sometimes, if the loudest person doesn’t reel it in, the body breaks under the weight of it.

I used to believe silence was defeat. That if I stayed quiet, I would be overlooked, ignored, discarded. What I’ve learned since is that silence is not the opposite of strength. It can be the form of it that keeps you standing.

The loudest person may win the room for a moment. But the one who knows when to quiet down, when to let stillness do the speaking... they win something louder. They win their peace.

So when I find myself in situations now where volume tempts me, I remember Seattle. I remember the cold counter, the pilot’s quiet gift, the way my body paid the price. And I remind myself: sometimes silence doesn’t mean you’ve lost. Sometimes silence is the only way not to lose yourself.