When I went for my interview to apply for a place on a university psychotherapy programme, I was sweating. Nervousness, menopause or the smelly tweed coat I was wearing in an attempt to look bookish, either way, I sweated a lot and I babbled a lot. I can't remember anything I said but I know I just filled the space with a stream of my usual set pieces about self-actualisation and identity and other words that have been leached of meaning through over-use.
The two lecturers who interviewed me were, like TV shrinks, warm and twinkly, with a lot of professional nodding even at my most inane comments ("It's all part of my journey." Ugh.) But still, given they are essentially shrinks to shrinks, also shrewd. One of them asked me, when she could get a word in edgeways that is: "How are you possibly hoping to be a therapist when you talk so much?" (But she put it more tactfully).
I'm trying to learn not to be so defensive so I laughed and fanned my beetroot face with my timetable and explained I talk a lot when I'm nervous and that I'm aware I have a challenge with talking too much and I'm working on it, really I am, I'm not always like this, yadda yadda, more talking. (I didn't mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key did I? Hope not. Shudder.)
But I really meant it about trying to go schtum. Because in a moment of history which celebrates speaking up, stating your truth, joining the Whisper Network, calling people out and many other kinds of self-righteous shoutiness, I seem to be heading in the opposite direction. I am thinking wistfully about the beauty and power of silence.
There is a danger in thinking that you have to tell everyone your view on everything. Sometimes it's more eloquent to know when to shut up.