Silent Echoes: Finding My Voice Through Writing
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Time to read 4 min
Growing up, I often felt unable to express myself—
not due to a lack of people around me, nor because I didn’t know how to communicate—but because I craved being truly heard and understood. Too often, conversations left me feeling worse, as if my words missed their mark, leading me to believe silence was a better option.
I didn’t realize it then, but I was carrying a heavy load of unexpressed emotions. Intense feelings like hurt and anger aren’t meant to be bottled up; they’re signals—indicating pain, boundary violations, or discomfort. It’s vital to acknowledge these emotions, understand their roots, and then release them. Holding onto them longer than necessary only allows them to cloud our minds. Writing became my way of dispersing that cloud.
Attempting to discuss personal matters often meant reliving painful memories, all while hoping the listener could grasp the depth of my feelings. The fear of overwhelming them or being misunderstood added another layer of complexity. Talking to people can be daunting. You have to translate your swirling thoughts into coherent words, tailor them to your audience, and navigate the nuances of each relationship. With family, there are unspoken limits; with friends, varying degrees of openness.
Writing, however, offers a sanctuary. It’s a space where I can pour out my thoughts without interruption, share as much or as little as I choose, and delve into self-reflection without external judgments. Even when I don’t fully understand my feelings, writing helps unravel them. While I recognize the value of therapy and plan to return to it, writing remains a steadfast companion.
Writing serves as a release for the unspeakable, a testament to our experiences of pain and love. It’s a declaration that we’ve lived, felt, and endured.
Many of us guard our privacy, shaped by valid reasons and past experiences. Yet, humans are inherently social beings. Despite the allure of isolation, prolonged solitude can be detrimental. I’ve learned that while writing for oneself is therapeutic, sharing our stories adds another dimension. A book unread serves little purpose. Similarly, while my writings are primarily for me, I recognize the value in sharing with those who might resonate with my journey.
I cherish writing but also value one-on-one connections. Sharing experiences with someone, allowing them into my world, and receiving feedback is refreshing. However, writing lacks the interactive feedback that conversations provide. A page can’t celebrate victories or offer advice. It provides clarity but not the dynamic exchange that human interaction offers. I’ve noticed it’s often easier to open up to strangers—free from the weight of expectations and preconceived notions.
Expectations complicate communication
Oftentimes, people project their standards onto others, leading to misunderstandings. We can’t hold others accountable for not meeting the personal expectations we’ve set for ourselves. This disconnect strains relationships. Unintentional hurt can be more painful than deliberate harm because it forces introspection: Am I overreacting? Is my pain valid? Addressing such hurt requires confronting both our feelings and the actions of others.
Throughout my life, I’ve been labeled as too emotional, overthinking, loving too intensely, even smiling too much. When unintentionally hurt, I question myself: Am I being too sensitive? Is my reaction justified? This self-doubt, coupled with addressing the other person’s actions, creates a mental replay of past experiences, making communication exhausting.
But through the complexity of it all...
Writing alleviates these pressures. It allows me to express without fear of misunderstanding or judgment. I’ve realized that some people may not be equipped to handle individuals like me, and that’s okay. If others can’t understand or listen, I will always be here for myself. Writing is my shield, my release, my path to healing. It’s how I honor my emotions and ensure I’m not denying myself the expression I need.
With that, I repeat these words:
I commit to listening to myself, embracing my emotions, and journaling through my transitions. I’m not seeking validation anymore. I know who I am, what I like, and what I don’t. My actions don’t need to make sense to anyone but me, and I’m at peace with that. I have ambitious plans for myself, both mentally and physically. I’ve learned that to love others fully, I must first offer them the not the best version of myself but the version who is willing to learn and grow. And so, I write.
Continue The Dialogue: Your Voice Counts
Writing has been my sanctuary, allowing me to navigate the complexities of emotions and experiences that are often difficult to articulate. But this journey isn’t just mine—it’s one that many of us share. I invite you, dear reader, to embark on your own path of self-discovery through writing. Have you found solace in putting pen to paper? What insights have you uncovered along the way? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below; let’s foster a community where our collective reflections can inspire and support one another.
Dont forget to check out the IBG library!
Book of the Day: Poetry of Love for Every Day of the Year
Edited by Jane McMorland Hunter
A daily dose of love through poetry—this collection wraps you in tenderness, heartbreak, and everything in between. With 365 poems from timeless voices to modern hearts, each page feels like a soft whisper or a bold confession. Whether you’re reading to reflect, to heal, or simply to feel something real, this book offers a moment of pause and beauty every single day.
Personal Take:
This book feels like a love letter to every version of love—romantic, fleeting, unspoken, lost, and lasting. Some days I’d open it and feel like the poem was written just for me, like it somehow knew what kind of love (or heartbreak) I was holding that day. It’s not just a collection—it’s a ritual. One poem a day that softens you, reminds you, or even challenges you to feel. I keep it close when I need something tender.