What We Mean When We Say “Just Speak Up”
“Just speak up” is one of those phrases that sounds empowering until you try to apply it in real life.
It assumes a level playing field. It assumes protection. It assumes that the cost of speaking is roughly the same as the cost of staying quiet. For a lot of people, none of that is true.
We say “just speak up” the way we say “just leave” or “just report it,” as if power is neutral and consequences are hypothetical. As if courage lives in a vacuum and everyone has the same margin for error.
Most people learn early that speaking up is not just about being right. It’s about whether you’ll be believed, whether anyone will back you up, and whether the system you’re in has shown itself willing to protect you—or willing to protect itself.
Think about how often we see this play out in public.
A junior employee flags a problem and is labeled “difficult” or “not a culture fit.” A whistleblower comes forward and is immediately asked why they didn’t leave sooner, why they stayed, why they didn’t say something earlier—questions that place the burden back on them.
“Just speak up” skips where people have learned, over time, exactly what happens when they do.
In prison, “just speak up” isn’t advice—it’s a threat. Guards decide who to believe, often arbitrarily. Prisoners operate under their own unspoken hierarchy, where violating “inside rules” like snitching can get you hurt or worse. There is a formal complaint process, but guards pull complaints from the box and decide what goes anywhere. The system looks procedural. Inside, it’s discretionary.
A week after I arrived, my bunkmate was attacked in front of me. I didn’t know her name. I knew only enough not to say who did it. When guards later called me into an office, the inmates who ran the unit circled outside the glass, making it clear what would happen if I talked. Inside, the guards threatened to send me to the hole unless I identified her. I told them I feared for my safety. They told me to point her out anyway. I complied—and was immediately labeled a snitch.
After that, I was threatened with violence from inmates and too afraid to tell the guards again. I was trapped between two systems of power, each punishing me for the same act. Speaking up and staying silent both felt like failure. In reality, everything I did was survival in a system where power came from every direction and protection came from nowhere.
Outside prison, the penalties are less immediate but often more far-reaching. When you’re vulnerable—living in poverty, carrying stigma, recovering from trauma—speaking up can cost jobs, housing, credibility, and the ability to recover afterward. Silence in these contexts isn’t weakness or passivity; it’s a learned strategy to prevent collapse in systems that have already shown you how little protection they offer.
This is why “just speak up” is a luxury. It’s advice often given by people who already have safety nets. People with reputations or leverage. People who have already proven themselves and can afford to be seen as difficult once or twice.
For everyone else, silence is often a learned response to a system that has made itself clear. That doesn’t mean silence is good. It means it’s rational. It’s survival.
What gets lost in these conversations is that many people do speak up—at first. Quietly. Carefully. Through the “right channels.” They ask questions. They test the water. And when those early signals are ignored, dismissed, or punished, they adapt.
We rarely ask why someone stopped speaking. We jump straight to why they didn’t keep going.
If we actually want people to speak up, the work isn’t motivational. It’s structural. It’s about building environments where refusal doesn’t come with disproportionate consequences. Where authority is accountable. Where silence isn’t the safest option.
Until then, telling people to “just speak up” isn’t empowerment. It’s a way of pretending the problem lives with the person who’s already at risk.
