What No One Tells You About Voice
Learning to listen to the various voices...
I used to think “finding my voice” was something that happened once.
Like a movie montage moment: cue the music, she finally says the one bold line she was scared to say, her hair looks amazing, and BOOM! voice found.
Except… that never happened.
What actually happened was this:
I wrote something that felt true. And then I deleted it. Because it sounded too sharp. Too weird. Too honest. Too much like me.
I’ve been told to “write with authenticity.”
But what was meant was: Make it sound authentic… but still digestible or socially acceptable. Still clean. Still familiar. Still like someone they already trust.
And sometimes, I... just can’t.
I can’t sanitize my emotions. My thoughts. My rage or frustration.
So I write—and whichever voice (or voices) flow out, I’m learning to listen to them. And honor them. Even when I’d rather keep it clean.
(Welcome to my world, lovingly known as Inked Whispers & Sass)
Because my voice doesn’t always come out in full sentences.
Sometimes it shows up as tension… Sometimes it throws a tantrum.
Sometimes it swears on the very first word. (Looking at you, Emberly.)
Sometimes it wants to yell, and sometimes it curls into silence so soft it takes three re-reads to notice. (That’s Moon Whispers. She doesn’t repeat herself.)
There isn’t just one voice. That’s the part no one said out loud.
There’s a whole f*cking committee.
There’s the one who interrupts with dry sarcasm when I get too precious. (Boundarie never asks permission.)
There’s the toddler mystic who says the truth way too early, with peanut butter on her face and no regard for timing. (Tiny Sassy Oracle, obviously.)
There’s the one who leaves emotional Post-Its on the fridge of my soul.
(Quinn, always writing from the ribcage.)
There’s the cosmic secretary who pulls karmic receipts and reads them aloud like she’s got all eternity. (Celestial Archives doesn’t flinch.)
And there’s Ruby, my beloved bob-tail manx, flopped in the middle of the page, licking her paw, unimpressed with my avoidance and already writing the ending I’m afraid of.
None of them are wrong. None of them are “off brand.”
They’re all me and I’m not a brand.
Just… different parts of me, speaking through different corridors.
And honestly? I don’t know if I’ll ever have a clean answer for “what’s your voice?” again.
Because it depends.
On the day. On the ache. On the memory I’m dragging behind me like a shadow. On who I think might be listening. On whether or not I’m brave enough not to perform.
On whether I think they’ll like it. On whether I like it even if they don’t.
But I’m learning this:
If a line feels dangerous and alive, it’s probably the right one.
If a sentence makes me exhale like a secret just got told, I keep it.
If a voice rises that makes me feel something real; grief, fury, relief, resonance, I let her speak.
Even if she swears. Even if she’s louder or quieter or weirder than I wanted her to be. Even if she shows up with seventeen cousins and a migraine.
Because that’s still voice. And that’s still me.
Whose voice showed up for you while you were reading this?
(Or which part of you wanted to interrupt me halfway through?)
That’s the one to listen to. She’s probably got something to say.