The Quiet Voice

The voice may still be present, but it no longer decides where the journey goes.

There is a quiet voice that has accompanied much of my life.

Not loud enough to stop me.

Not convincing enough to be believed entirely.

Yet persistent enough that I have learned to recognise it.

It appears most clearly around the things that matter.

My work.

My parenting.

My writing.

The things I care about deeply.

The things I hope will make a difference.

The things closest to my heart.

Its questions are usually familiar.

Is this good enough?

Does this matter?

What is the point?

Surely somebody else has already said this better.

Surely somebody else already knows more.

Writes better.

Speaks better.

Parents better.

Teaches better.

Creates better.

If I am honest, this voice is not limited to writing.

Writing simply makes it easier to see.

I have heard versions of the same voice in my parenting, my work, and many other parts of my life.

It tends to appear wherever something feels important.

Wherever I care deeply about the outcome.

Wherever I hope my contribution might matter.

Perhaps that is why it has remained such a familiar companion.

What interests me is that the voice rarely appears when the stakes are low.

It rarely emerges while I am doing the shopping, replying to an email, or crossing something practical off my to-do list.

Instead, it seems to gather around the things through which I express something of myself.

The things that contain meaning, hope, vulnerability and contribution.

For a long time, I assumed confidence would eventually arrive and the voice would disappear.

Yet the more I pay attention, the less convinced I am that confidence works that way.

The voice still appears.

Around my writing.

Around my work.

Around my parenting.

Around the things I care about most.

The difference is not that the voice has gone away.

The difference is that I have continued alongside it.

Life keeps offering evidence.

The voice is there before I publish something.

Then I publish it.

The voice is there before I share a piece of writing.

Then I share it.

The voice is there before I make a decision that feels aligned with the direction my life is moving in.

Then I make it anyway.

The voice remains.

But so do I.

This has left me curious about something.

Perhaps courage is not the absence of that voice.

Perhaps courage is recognising it, offering it a seat at the table, and continuing anyway.

Not because we have finally become confident.

Not because we have eliminated uncertainty.

But because we have stopped waiting for the voice to disappear before we begin.

There is another question hidden underneath it all.

One that feels more honest.

Less about ability.

More about significance.

Not:

Am I good enough?

But:

Does what I have to offer matter?

I suspect many people know this question.

Writers.

Parents.

Therapists.

Artists.

Teachers.

Anyone who creates, nurtures, contributes or cares deeply about their work.

Perhaps that is why comparison can feel so persuasive.

There will always be better writers.

Better speakers.

More experienced professionals.

More books.

More stories.

More voices.

Yet none of them have lived our lives.

None of them have noticed exactly what we notice.

None of them can offer what we offer in quite the same way.

Lately, I have been considering a different possibility.

What if the purpose of our work is not to be the best?

What if the purpose is to be authentic?

To contribute what is ours to contribute.

To tell the story only we can tell.

To write the words only we can write.

To bring our own voice into the conversation.

The quiet voice still visits from time to time.

I suspect it always will.

These days, however, I find myself listening a little differently.

Not asking how to make it disappear.

Not asking how to become immune to it.

Simply noticing that it often arrives wherever something meaningful is trying to emerge.

My writing.

My work.

My parenting.

The parts of life that matter most.

And perhaps that changes everything.

Because the articles are not trying to establish me as a writer.

They are evidence that I already am one.

🌿💛

M.A.L.I. Neuro-Somatic Practice
Reflect. Reconnect. Grow.