Track 03: The Exit Isn’t Always Loud

Sometimes your spirit just knows when it’s time to leave the room.

“If the room no longer holds the same warmth, maybe it’s not yours to hold anymore.” — Kindred Williams

A little while ago, I walked into a space that should’ve felt like home.

The room was full of familiar faces. People I’ve laughed with, been around in all kinds of settings, shared stories and milestones with. The place, the energy, the people should’ve felt like comfort. But instead, I felt like a guest in a room I used to help decorate with my light and energy.

I couldn’t quite name it in the moment. Nothing outwardly happened. Nobody said anything wild. There weren’t any shady looks or tension. But the vibe just wasn’t there. The hugs felt hollow. The conversations felt surface. I looked around at people I’ve known for years and felt like I didn’t know anybody at all. Like I didn’t belong.

It didn’t feel like a warm hug. It felt like I was shrinking.

I’m a staggering 6’3, but that night I felt 5’3. I stayed close to my husband. He was my safe space, my laughter, my calm. But my spirit had already started counting down. I was checking the time like I was waiting for a bell to ring. I just wanted to leave.

Right before we got up to go, I looked at him and said, “We need to debrief.” By the time we walked out the door, he said the energy just felt… and I finished his sentence. “Off.” We both felt it.

And as we talked, it brought up a feeling I’ve felt so many times since I’ve moved to Columbus around different groups of people.

The energy reminded me of how I used to be as a kid. I’ve always been able to feel the temperature of a room before I ever opened my mouth. If the energy didn’t feel right, I wouldn’t force it. I’d fall back. Not because I was trying to be rude or standoffish, but because I was trying to feel it out. To protect my peace.

That pause, that need to warm up before I engage, has always been misunderstood. Folks would assume I was stuck up or uninterested, when really, I was trying to make sure the space was safe before I let myself unfold or be judged. That’s just how I’m wired.

I’ve never been the type to perform comfort just to make other people comfortable. If it doesn’t feel right, I sit still. I listen. And when it finally feels real, I show up fully. But this time, that moment never came.

It took me back to another moment almost ten years ago. I had just landed my first job after college and wanted to celebrate. I treated myself to dinner at Carolina Kitchen in DC, then walked across the street to a revival service at a church that used to feel like home. But that night, the energy shifted. They gave the mic to someone who wrapped homophobia in scripture and called it truth. I sat there, feeling the air leave the room, and just like that, I knew. I got up quietly and left. No argument. No scene. I just knew it was time to go. I never walked back into that church.

This recent moment felt the same.

No drama. No fallout. Just clarity.

What I’ve learned, and continue to learn, is that the exit isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper in your spirit. A knowing. A still moment that says, “This isn’t your space anymore.”

And that’s okay.

Growth doesn’t always come with celebration. Sometimes it comes with silence. Sometimes it shows up in how your body tightens, how you check the time, how quickly you start looking for the door.

You don’t need a big reason to leave a room that no longer fits you. And you definitely don’t need permission.

If you ever find yourself in a space that doesn’t feel like it once did, trust that. It’s okay to leave with love. It’s okay to bow out quietly. It’s okay to choose peace without needing to explain it.

Every exit doesn’t have to be loud.

But sometimes, the quiet ones are the clearest sign that you’ve grown.