There was a time when I didn’t question my voice.
I just used it.
I spoke with the kind of freedom that comes naturally to children — not because I knew I was right, but because I didn’t yet know I wasn’t allowed to be wrong. I laughed from my belly, interrupted without guilt, asked questions that made adults uncomfortable. I didn’t know yet that this would cost me something.
But little by little, I learned.
I learned that my loud voice made people frown.
That curiosity could come off as disrespect.
That passion was easily mistaken for rebellion.
I began to hear things like:
“ You’re so sensitive”
“Stop being so emotional.”
I can’t point to the exact moment I started silencing myself. It wasn’t a single conversation or correction. It was the accumulation of small messages — words, glances, punishments, scripture twisted just enough to bind me instead of free me.
I stopped laughing loudly.
Stopped asking too many questions.
Stopped sharing what I really thought.
And people praised me for it.
They called it maturity. Wisdom. Growth.
But what it really was… was disappearance.
I had trained myself to be agreeable. Acceptable. Safe.
But the safer I became, the more lost I felt.
Inside, I was aching. With anger I wasn’t allowed to feel.
And still — I stayed quiet.
Because silence, at some point, starts to feel like survival.
Because if your voice has only ever gotten you into trouble, you begin to believe it’s the problem.
But here’s what I’ve learned — the problem was never my voice.
The problem was the spaces that couldn’t hold it.
And the more I abandoned myself to be accepted, the more I disappeared into versions of me that felt holy but were really just hollow.
Eventually, my body began to protest. In whispers at first — tension in my throat, fatigue I couldn’t explain, a constant lump I couldn’t swallow.
It took years to find her again — the girl who asked too many questions, laughed too hard, told the truth even when it made others uncomfortable.
But now that I’ve found her, I nurture her. I tell her she’s safe. I fiercely protect her, and I validate her.
I let her speak.
Even when her voice shakes.
Even when people flinch.
Even when they walk away.
Because I’d rather be too much than disappear again.
⸻
Reflection Questions:
• Where did your silence begin?
• What have you lost in exchange for being “acceptable”?
• What would it mean to come back home to your voice?
Let me know in the comments.
With heart,
Silondile🌷
