The Gumball in My Mouth

You know those dreams where your teeth fall out? Or worse: the one where your mouth is stuffed with a giant wad of gum, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t pull it out? It stretches, resists, sticks to your tongue and gums like it belongs there. You need to speak. But you can’t.

That dream is a metaphor I didn’t ask for, but apparently needed. Because I’ve spent most of my life wanting to say something and not quite managing to.

Not dramatic things. Just… honest ones. Like: “That hurt.” Or, “Actually, I don’t agree.” Or the terrifying, life-altering: “I really like you.”

There have been too many moments where I stayed quiet. Sometimes out of fear. Sometimes to keep the peace. Sometimes because I simply didn’t know how to say it without trembling. Other times, I said it…but no one seemed to hear me.

As a kid, I was the quiet one. The quiet, observant, gentle girl who didn’t make waves unless something felt truly unjust. Then I turned thirteen, hormones kicked in, and I started launching tiny rebellions. Not for attention, but because something in me couldn’t stand the fakery anymore. I fought with my mom the way people in soap operas slam doors; dramatic, loud, and mostly ineffective.

In my family, you weren’t supposed to talk back. My dad died young, and my mother was from the school of “what I say goes.” There was little room for dialogue. Disagreement was mistaken for disrespect. And vulnerability? That was something you hid under sarcasm, or silence.

I wasn’t always graceful about it. Teenage me was sharp, stubborn, and sometimes too loud. But at least I was trying. I was trying to figure out what it meant to speak up without burning everything down. To ask for better, without being labelled ungrateful. To disagree, without being cast out of the circle.

Over time, I’ve softened. I’ve learned to listen better, too. I know now that some things are worth saying, and some are just noise. Not every feeling needs a spotlight. But some do. Like when your boundaries are crossed. Or when you’re slowly disappearing in a relationship, smiling while shrinking.

I’ve had friendships that taught me what safe honesty feels like. We argue, we call each other out, we still like each other after. It’s magic, really. The kind of connection that doesn’t shatter when tested.

But romance? That’s where I still get tangled. I’ve swallowed too many words in the hope that affection would stay. That if I stayed soft and agreeable, someone would stick around. Spoiler: they didn’t. And the silence didn’t protect me. It just made me feel invisible.

Sometimes I still feel that sticky gum sensation. When I sense a vibe shift and want to ask, “Is everything okay?” but freeze. When I want to say, “This isn’t working for me,” but worry they’ll walk away. When I know I’m shrinking again, smiling, nodding, disappearing.

But here’s the truth I’m learning:
Speaking up might not make people stay.
But it helps you stay with yourself.

So these days, I try. Even if my voice shakes. Even if it comes out messy. Even if the gumball dream shows up again that night, just to remind me it’s still hard.

Also, if there’s spinach in my teeth or mascara on my cheek: tell me. I promise I’ll thank you; after the initial shame spiral, obviously.

– Sophie Quinn

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