I’d Rather Be Doubted Than Silent

Not too long ago, someone flagged a piece I wrote. There was nothing mean in that piece, and I didn’t break any rules. Can you guess what the reason is? Because it was too well written for a non-native English writer. Ridiculous! But someone really thought it didn’t sound like it came from me.

I didn’t respond publicly. I didn’t start a thread or reply to her accusation to defend myself. I didn’t even remove the post. What I did do was let the shame sink in. Today I want to write about it. I don’t intend to reopen a wound but I want to acknowledge the silent damage that stays with you when someone tells you that this can’t be yours. 

Writing has been a part of my life since I was a child. I wrote in journals, on pieces of paper, and as letters to myself. I write as naturally as I breathe. Sometimes as letters to myself. Sometimes raw. Sometimes lyrical and poetic. Sometimes with confidence or insecurity. They are all mine. Always. So when someone flagged my post for sounding too polished, I was in disbelief. Like it was some kind of a joke. I didn’t quite know how to describe it. Because if I dug deeper, I knew it wasn’t about that particular post, but what that skepticism implied—that my voice, my lived experience, my hard work, and my growth couldn’t possibly be real. 

That I, as an Indigenous woman, mother, artist, and non-native English writer/speaker, couldn’t write with depth, nuance, or clarity without cheating. That if my writing sounded confident, careful, or flawless, it had to be fake or AI-generated. 

The fear that comes from that is weird. It doesn’t rage or roar loudly. It feels like something petty that you should quietly let go. However, it lingers in the shadows of your next sentence. Should I simplify this sentence? Should I cut the metaphor? Should I get rid of this em dash or that Oxford comma so it doesn’t sound AI-ish? 

Should I water myself down to avoid suspicion?

I hate that I have those thoughts right now. But I know I’m not the only one. I’ve seen it in other writers as well, especially those who write from the margins: obscure and unknown. Or in those who write in a language that is foreign to them. I’ve seen it in the ones who tell hard truths through rhythm, restraint, and image. Or those who write not to impress, but to stay alive. We’re often told to write honestly but punished when we do it well. We’re told to share our stories but questioned when our pieces are too good. We are told to write in our voice, but only if that voice sounds a certain way. 

There are too many gatekeepers who claim to be defenders. People who think they’re protecting literature when they’re really just reinforcing old hierarchies in place. 

They think people like me who didn’t grow up with English can’t produce good stories or poems. That if I do, God forbid, that must have been AI generated. That’s bloody censorship. It’s not imposed by platforms but by what they internalize. Prejudice. Don’t write like that. That sounds too good to be written by you. 

Some of us shrink before we even begin. 

I’m done dumbing myself down. I never write to impress anyone. I use it to express my truth. And the truth is that it has taken me years to find the right words. Years spent with memories. Years spent revising, rewriting, and returning to the page—not to make it sound perfect, but to sound like the real me. 

If that voice has become sharper, it’s because I’ve earned it. If it sounds clear, that’s because I’ve been carrying fog for too long. If it rings true, it’s because I wrote long hours struggling with myself to put truth into words. 

To the ones who doubted me: I won’t name you, but fuck you, paloi ko ya, and remember this—every time you silence a writer who has finally found her voice, you aren’t protecting integrity. You’re only showing how little you believe in growth, change, and acceptance. People grow, even those of us you didn’t expect to. 

Sometimes I can still feel the sting of that rejection. But I won’t feel ashamed anymore. And this voice you hear now—shaped by memory, motherhood, culture, and survival—is real. I’d rather be doubted than stay silent. 

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I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.