I Will Use My Voice

To my fear of speaking up,

I’m done.

You’ve lived in my throat long enough—

like a stone lodged between breath and bravery,

like a shadow curled behind my teeth.

I used to think silence was safety.

That stillness was survival.

That shrinking made me invisible

and being invisible made me safe.

But silence is not safety.

It’s a prison.

And I’m ready to walk free.

You were planted early.

In classrooms where hands rose like flags

and mine stayed folded in my lap.

In kitchens where the air grew sharp

but I bit my tongue instead of the truth.

“Be quiet.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

“Speak when spoken to.”

You taught me obedience

disguised as politeness.

You taught me to nod

even when my heart screamed no.

You taught me to disappear in plain sight.

But I was born with a voice.

And I remember it.

Before you made me afraid,

I spoke in colors.

I laughed like wind through trees.

I asked “why”

before I knew I wasn’t supposed to.

You came later.

Quiet at first—

a hesitation,

a second guess,

a blush when eyes turned toward me.

Then louder—

“You’ll sound stupid.”

“They won’t care.”

“You don’t belong here.”

But I do belong.

And I’m done carrying your echo.

I have swallowed too many words.

Apologies I didn’t mean.

Ideas I was too scared to offer.

Questions I kept to myself

while others filled the room with noise.

Do you know what it feels like

to betray your own truth

just to keep the peace?

I do.

And I won’t do it anymore.

Today, I open my mouth—

not just to speak,

but to say something.

To take up space.

To breathe deeply,

and let my breath shape sound

that belongs in the world.

My voice is not a threat.

It is a presence.

A pulse.

A promise.

I used to think

that if I spoke,

the world would break.

Now I know:

if I stay silent,

I will.

So I will use my voice.

Not to shout.

Not to win.

But to live.

To tell the truth even when it trembles.

To ask for what I need

without apology.

To say “stop”

when a boundary is crossed.

To say “yes”

because I want to,

not because I’m afraid to say “no.”

I will use my voice

to speak up in meetings,

even when my heart hammers.

To answer questions

without rehearsing the perfect reply in my head.

To share my story

without shrinking it

to make others more comfortable.

To say “I love you” first.

To say “I forgive you” last.

To speak my grief,

so it doesn’t rot inside me.

To speak my joy,

so others know it’s possible.

I will use my voice

to interrupt injustice.

To ask hard questions.

To name what hurts.

To name what heals.

I will use it for those

who still can’t find theirs—

for the girl hiding in the back row,

for the boy told to “man up,”

for the child afraid to tell.

I will speak

so they know they’re not alone.

I will speak

so they know it’s allowed.

And yes, I will stumble.

There will be days

my voice quivers like a leaf.

There will be rooms

that try to quiet me,

people who roll their eyes,

who interrupt,

who talk over.

But I will not go quiet again.

Because the sound of my own voice

is the sound of coming home.

To my fear of speaking up,

you once kept me safe.

I see that now.

You tried to protect me

from shame,

from rejection,

from being wrong.

But I’m no longer a child.

I don’t need your cage.

I need wings.

And words are wings.

So I’m done.

Done shrinking.

Done doubting.

Done editing myself out of the story.

This is my chapter now.

And I’m writing it out loud.