I wasn’t just not popular in elementary school, I was pretty much invisible. If anyone wanted to find me during recess (they usually didn’t), I’d be in some corner bingeing on R.L. Stine books, wearing glasses so thick with blue-rimmed frames too large for my face because my mother thought it was a good idea to let a 7-year-old choose her first pair.
By the time I reached middle school, my spectacles had evolved from blue-rimmed to aviator gold, just before Jeffrey Dahmer became a household name. They’re all the rage now, Gwyneth Paltrow famously wearing them at her ski trial last year, but trust me they didn’t make quite the same fashion statement on a chubby 11-year-old in the early nineties. That’s when the bullying started and staying invisible became a survival mechanism. So if anyone wanted to find me then, I was hiding under a table freebasing Stephen King novels.
In high school, I ditched the glasses for contact lenses and stumbled into an eating disorder. Suddenly, boys started paying attention to me, and I found myself welcomed into a group of friends who thrived on being misfits. I was still into books, sneaking reads of J.D. Salinger and getting my mind blown, but keeping it under wraps, not wanting to kill the cool vibes I was finally part of. Through my new crew—big-time Nirvana fans—I got hooked, not on Kurt Cobain like everyone else, but on his wife Courtney Love’s unapologetic female punk energy. I started going to indie rock concerts, picked up a guitar, joined a band, got my first tattoo, and dabbled in the cigarettes, beer and pot that seemed to come with the teenage angst-ridden territory.
That was when, for the first time, I felt like I had permission to let all my bottled-up anger out. And let me tell you, I started to scream. I screamed for every time I was ignored or bullied, for every taunt and jeer that followed me since those early days. It was like setting free a part of me that had been holding its breath. I screamed as my first kiss led to my first heartbreak. I screamed louder twenty years later when my first marriage ended in my first divorce. I screamed at the top of my lungs about being Armenian and the Genocide and Turkey denying it and what it all meant. I screamed when things didn’t go my way or people let me down. I screamed at everyone about everything, for a very long time.
But as good as it sometimes felt, screaming wasn’t really me and it never really worked. When I hit my forties and learned the meaning of self-love and self-respect, I realised I don’t have to scream anymore, nor do I want to. Here, Susan Cain’s “Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking” was a revelation. It articulated what I had felt but couldn’t put into words: the immense power and depth found in quietude and introspection. Her exploration of how introverts shape our world, often from behind the scenes, resonated deeply. She debunked the myth that to be powerful, one must be loud, aggressive, and perpetually “on.” If you’re an extrovert, this might come off as counterintuitive. There’s no denying we live in a world which equates loudness and visibility with influence. But as a closet introvert, quiet power really hits home for me.
This concept of quiet power contrasts sharply with the aggressive, fist-pumping rhetoric of leaders like Azerbaijani President Aliyev. His bombastic threats and warmongering stance against Armenia might appear as signs of strength to some, but they reveal deep insecurities. An eagle doesn’t need to proclaim its ability to soar or remind others of its dominance in the sky. It just does it and has it. Its mere presence and the way it glides effortlessly above all is proof enough of its stature. Real power and majesty don’t require advertisement. The world’s Aliyevs are like parrots: they can only imitate more formidable birds, trying to make eagle sounds while possessing none of their genuine grace.
Such aggressive posturing also serves as a smokescreen. By amplifying threats and external conflicts, they divert attention from the autocrat’s own shortcomings, corruption, and the ways in which he exploits his own citizens. This tactic creates a façade of strength and unity in the face of fabricated dangers, overshadowing the real issues of governance failure and personal enrichment at the population’s expense. In contrast, the essence of quiet power lies in genuine leadership that relies on conviction rather than coercion, fostering an atmosphere of respect and understanding. This approach builds a foundation for lasting stability and integrity, proving far more sustainable and effective than the deceptive strength of authoritarian posturing.
Unlike the overt display of power that seeks to dominate conversations and spaces, quiet power thrives on the subtleties of being, understanding, and influencing without unnecessary noise. There is so much strength derived from silence and discretion that remains an undervalued asset, even in overcoming trauma. On this, Toni Morrison has fittingly said: “Sometimes you don’t survive whole, you just survive in part. But the grandeur of life is that attempt, it’s not about that solution. It is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances. It’s that that makes it elegant.”
As I’ve navigated life beyond my screaming phase, I’ve found that embracing quiet power allows me to channel my passions and convictions in more productive ways, while granting me a sense of dignity and peace. It has taught me that real influence doesn’t come from the volume of my voice but from the depth of my values and the actions I take to uphold them. Embracing quiet power is now a revolutionary act—a silent rebellion against the expectation to conform to an extroverted ideal. And for someone who once thought screaming was the only way to be heard, discovering the impact of a quieter presence has been nothing short of liberating.
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Listen to Sheila’s personal reading of “Quiet Power”.
Sheila Paylan is an international human rights lawyer and former legal advisor to the United Nations. Now based in Yerevan, she regularly consults for a variety of international organizations, NGOs, think tanks, and governments.
