Come Inside My Brain, Pt. 2
I’m Not Alone, I’m Just Echo-Rich
I used to think I had one voice. My voice. (Insert confident TED Talk energy here—cue dramatic lighting, spotlight, well-timed emotional climax. Cool, right?)
Except... no. I don’t. I have at least 25 (well, 25 that I’ve decided to acknowledge, embrace, and give “names” to). Possibly more (definitely more, I'm just trying to set some limits, which honestly feels like trying to contain glitter..)
Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I’m attempting to control the chaos. (And yes, I know—25 voices doesn’t sound like “controlled” to most people. But it depends. On the day, the caffeine level, how tired I am, how many rude customers I’ve dealt with, how many “urgent” corporate expectations got dumped on my lap, or how high the migraine scale has tipped... all before noon.)
And no, not those kind of voices. Let’s just get that out of the way before someone starts diagnosing. (No need. I’m just finally honoring the way my brain works, ruminates, sorts, spirals, and occasionally sets things on fire for fun.) They’re not “characters,” either. I didn’t sit down and invent them. They just... showed up. I was writing, just casually, in flow, and suddenly, there on my screen, was an aside with a tone that wasn’t intentionally mine. Not exactly. It echoed something I had just written, but with its own rhythm, its own attitude. And I stared at it, thinking... wait... who the hell just said that? It wasn’t a voice I created. It was a voice I recognized. A voice that had been waiting to speak.
One sounds like my best friend on hour four of a full-throttle rant.
One is suspiciously similar to that one friend who always whispers emotionally intelligent truth bombs at exactly the wrong time. (But also, was she wrong?)
One sounds just like my mom.
And one voice, God help me, sounds exactly like a spiritual librarian trying to file my life experiences alphabetically.
One is that super sassy, sarcastic voice that rarely gets airtime in public.
(I didn’t ask for any of them. They just moved in. Or maybe I just finally noticed them... and stopped pretending I didn’t already know them.)
They don’t take turns. They don’t stay in their lanes. (Lanes, for some people, (me, I’m some people) are apparently just “suggestions” anyway.) They pile on. Loudly. All at once. (Usually right when I’m about to post... or think about posting... or write something honest, weird, vulnerable, messy, or just real. So... always.)
Some try to help. Some absolutely make it worse. Some are just there for the chaos. A few are hilarious. Some stop me mid-edit with truth bombs so sharp I have to sit down and whisper “where the hell did that come from?” Some make me snort-laugh. Some I absolutely have to share with my husband. (Don’t worry. He’s used to my randomness. He married into it.)
And then there’s that one. You know the one.
“What if this is stupid? Delete it. No, seriously. Just don’t post. You’re doing too much. You’re not doing enough. Why are you like this?” That voice is probably the “real me.” Or at least the version of me that learned not to make waves. (I’d like to unplug her. Or assign her to a job that doesn’t involve commentary. Maybe something with a clipboard. Quiet room. No audience.)
The real kicker isn’t that I’ve been dishonest. It’s that every time I try to write in just one voice, the one I think I’m supposed to use, the version of me that’s polished, consistent, expected... it falls flat.
It feels narrow. Like I’ve pressed myself into a shape I don’t actually live in. And then, when I’m finally writing something honest, genuinely, truly me, I look at the words and realize... I’m writing in someone else’s voices (I used to stop and ask, “Who the hell said that?” or “Where did that come from?” And the answer is... me). That’s the kicker. Those voices, the ones that sound a little deeper, a little messier, sometimes feral, sometimes hilarious, sometimes sharp as glass—those are the real me. The real thoughts, emotions, and ideas.
The honest, multi-layered, often contradictory, occasionally brilliant chorus of me. And once I recognized and embraced it, I can't force myself back into that tiny little box of one single, solitary voice.
So when people say “find your voice,” I just kind of laugh. Like... what? As if it’s a single, labeled object I can pull off a shelf and hold up to the light? A solitary, consistent tone that always speaks truth? (I’ve found my voices. Plural.)
It’s not one voice. It’s a chorus. A pile-on. A swirling, echo-laced mess of memory, instinct, fire, self-doubt, side-eye, untamed patterns, and something that might be brilliance (or maybe just a spicy blend of feral creativity and sleep deprivation—I’m open to both). And somehow... I still write anyway. Usually while muttering to myself, forgetting what I was doing halfway through the second sentence, switching windows, Googling something I won’t remember, arguing with my highly customized AI assistant, and—oh look—another idea.
I’m not alone in here. (In my brain. Mind. Mental monologue. Whatever you want to call it.) I’m just echo-rich. (And honestly? I love the layered complexity of it. Most days.)
Maybe that’s not a problem. Maybe it’s the point. (Or a feature. Or a warning label. TBD.) Does it translate? Does it matter? I don’t know. I’m experimenting with writing the way I think and process and create.