My Voice Is Power

“What makes your voice dangerous?” This question seemed so far out of left field and hit straight to the target in my gut. Nothing I’d said with my words insinuated that my voice is dangerous. In fact, I am always so intentional with my words, deliberate with my tone, careful with what I say. I consider how it may be received before I let it cross my lips. And there it is. Why the need to be so cautious? It shows. To the room filled with coaches, it was clear that I was being measured. What I realize now is that to ANYONE it’s been clear that I had been conservative about what and how much I share. But I thought I was being considerate. I thought I was just being a thoughtful person. So when the senior mentor coach and trainer asked me this question off the top, it threw me completely off and I felt tears threaten to fall. Who am I tryna front, the tears most certainly fell. What is going ON with all of this?! I don’t think my voice is dangerous, do I? I’d never looked there before. This question, this direct missile of a query, forced me to look and I was shocked to find that, yes, I did believe that my voice is dangerous.

Since I can remember, I had been trained to be nice, be kind, don’t say that, don’t be hurtful. As a curious and insightful child, I had the ability to see and comment on or question things in such a way as to make the adults uncomfortable, even angry. I was also very observant, picking up on shifts in mood and energy. I soon learned that being direct, saying what I see, asking questions, makes people mad. My mother told me that she had to train me because I had a tendency to be mean. I remember not being permitted to speak, told to be quiet. I started having dreams about speaking up and telling people, usually family members, what I felt or thought or observed. I dreamed about it because I wasn’t allowed to say it out loud to them.

I got to be pretty good at suppressing, reading the room, taking the temperature of my audience. But, sometimes I would slip and, when I did, it came rushing out. When I was 15, my parents were separating, for what would be the last time out of a series of times. My dad had been living with us again for a year, but he wasn’t really there. There was such tension in the space, no one was happy, and it finally came to a head with my parents in an argument and my father threatening to leave. I’d had enough. It was almost an out of body experience, but I walked into the living room and let it all out. I told my dad about how he’d never really been present, how his being in the home was more draining to us than supportive, how he was a better father when he wasn’t there. I don’t remember all that I said. I knew I wasn’t trying to be mean or hurtful, just truthful. But, whatever I was saying was too much. My mother was shocked into silence and my dad kept telling me to be quiet. But I couldn’t, it kept coming out, pouring out. So, my dad finally put his hand over my mouth to get me to stop talking. My father had never put hands on me before. On a handful of occasions, I got spankings as a child, but it was my mother who did it. With his hand covering my mouth, the room got silent. And he left. My voice hurt him, made him mad, made him leave. The lesson was complete: my voice can hurt people, make them angry, and make them leave.

There is no wonder that this theme played out in my marriage. Except, I was trying so hard NOT to say the thing that it felt oppressive. I became the victim of this belief, but projected it onto my husband, onto his mother. They were so direct, so confrontational, so forthcoming with their thoughts and feelings but I wasn't allowed to be. I couldn't speak plainly and they did and so I felt victimized by them. I had to do everything I could to protect myself, which meant trying to be different, trying to say and do the right things. That didn't work. When I got a sense of my inner power, it meant leaving. I filed for divorce. My not speaking up was not the only issue in the marriage. However, my not accessing my voice was what made divorce seem like the only means of survival, the only possibility. In retrospect, I don't judge that choice as right or wrong. I do acknowledge it as a choice I made rather than something that was put upon me as a victim of circumstance.

The belief that my voice is dangerous has served me. I can speak to almost anyone, I am well-liked, I can be a social chameleon. It has also cost me much. It's cost me peace, intimacy, authenticity, and the full expression of myself. It is no longer worth it to me to give up these things. I know better now. I know that I am not responsible for managing the feelings, opinions, fears of others. I know that being direct and clear are not the same as mean or rude. I know that measuring and adjusting are forms of manipulation. I know that it takes too much energy and focus to stifle myself. I know that the levels I seek to reach require me to be my full self and OPEN MY MOUTH. I know that my heart is full of love, kindness, compassion, goodwill, joy, and strength and it is from this abundance that I speak most often. I know that I am a creator and it is through my words that I affect change. I know that there is more inside me to say. I know that my voice is not dangerous. My voice is power and I am ready to embrace it and engage it.