Speaking Softly, Not Fearfully
On learning to trust your voice.
Where can you find a quiet strength in your deepest insecurities? How would your voice live if you had no fears?
I write because the sound of my voice finds more strength on the page than out in the open air. If you’ve ever come to distrust your own tongue, then you might unfortunately relate. Tripping over words to the tune of anxiety rather than conviction in your right to speak. Stuttering, stopping, suddenly transfixed by sentiments that flow so freely within… I speak softly, not fearfully, ceding authority to what I say not how it leaves my mouth.
The weight of words is often what holds me in contempt of releasing them unburdened by perception. I vacillate between brash rebellion and anxious belittlement, deciding my disposition at any given moment, knowing I seldom maintain my position. So I speak with fake confidence until my subconscious can’t question its authenticity. At least on paper certainty is less in question. There is a permanence that is both frightening and comforting in its equanimity.
I often wonder if this distrust was born with me or attached itself unassumingly as I heeded the false truth of fear. I’ve mostly outgrown it now, but when I was younger, the prospect of articulation without trepidation felt like an aspirational feat. No matter how far back in memory I tread, I don’t recall a time when anxiety didn’t reverberate alongside my voice.
Most often my mind is racing faster than my speech can keep pace. I think that’s why I seek solace in the written word. The remediation of my pen passing through the page necessitates a slowness I’m often only apt to obey when I can feel the permanence of my words being pressed into ink. My journals become records of my presence and a gift to my future self that I regard with a degree of intention and sincerity memory alone struggles to maintain. On paper, I measure my words as long as I like and edit out the distance between what I feel and what language affords me.
Learning to trust my voice has meant pushing myself to the edge of discomfort until there is nothing left to ground my apprehension. In my speaking through doubt, parts of me resurface where my silence built shadows for dismay. In my writing, I take a thought, something that only feels safe with myself, and structure a bridge between what I feel and what I want you to know. My hope is that both you and I can feel a bit less alone.
Brianna, beautifully said ❤️
Wow, you articulated one of my deepest insecurities beautifully. I wrote a similar piece on being a skilled writer yet verbally challenged. It's truly a crazy experience lol. But nothing wrong with finding comfort on the page 🤍.