I’ve written and deleted the opening paragraph of this piece more times than I’m willing to admit. Countless ideas, drafts, and duds. Every version of my voice feels rehearsed, recycled, or weak. I keep waiting for words that feel and sound like mine, but everything feels borrowed. Itchy, awkward fitting, unflattering. I can’t look back and pinpoint it, but at some point, I started to feel like every sentence I wrote had to justify its existence before I reached the end.
There’s a quiet panic I hold that I’ve fallen behind beyond recovery. Everyone else built their voice while I was hiding. All I have left is my earnestness, and showcasing that seems scarier than anything. Even now, as I type this, I feel my heart rate increase and my eyes scan back over the words in frantic patterns. Am I doing too much? Who cares about any of this? Is this cringey?
There is a distinctively paralyzing nature in trying to find your voice at a time when everyone is yelling, all of the time. Thinking out loud is no longer an exercise but a performance. Everything is now designed to be polished, packaged, and extracted for all its value in the most efficient manner possible. I find myself editing for efficiency before I consider honesty. Then, I doubt there is any efficiency to be found in what I’m doing at all. I trim anything that lingers too long. I question whether a feeling is worth sharing if it isn’t particularly groundbreaking or unique. Trusting myself feels like an all-consuming, exhausting process, and it has led me to far too many unfinished posts.
Despite this all, I’ve held on to the notion of how I define the word “cool.” What makes the people I admire engaging, interesting, and noteworthy. It’s not about them being the smartest in the room, or the most insightful or revolutionary. It’s their willingness to consistently produce more than they consume. To participate over passively absorbing the massive inputs in front of them. Publicly, boldly, and imperfectly. It feels like I’m stuck in a trap they’ve managed to evade. I hide behind the notion of staying informed or cultured, but consumption doesn’t shed a light on my blind spots. It doesn’t force me to confront my insecurities. It doesn’t provide me with the opportunity to discover limitations in my thinking.
Showing up in this world as a consumer allows me to feign intelligence without risking the exposure of my mediocrity. I come off as engaged while not allowing those around me to examine my ideas. Because of this, it’s clear to me that what I’ve been waving off as writers block is really an issue of avoidance. Is it that I have nothing to say? Or is it that I would have to stand behind it, even if I’m not as original as I think I am? Am I truly out of ideas, or does trying just feel too embarrassing?
The stagnation chips away at me, piece by piece. Maybe it’s the sudden rise of the temperature coming up, or the slight shift in the air as the promise of spring starts to linger in the streets, but the metaphorical tape around my mouth feels more and more suffocating. Silence has kept me safe, but it’s also made me feel small. Every time I opened and closed this draft last month, waiting to feel fully formed before speaking again, I was slowly giving away more of my resolve.
So, I’m choosing to try anyway. Maybe what I have to say is unimportant, or dramatic, or useless. But the willingness to participate, to let my thoughts exist outside of myself, and to find peace in being ordinary, will hopefully allow me to pick up some of those chipped pieces. At the very least, finishing this piece has reminded me that I’m still willing to look for my voice, even if I’m not sure how much I want to be heard yet.
Post like no one’s reading until everybody does. Your mind is powerful and the world deserves to see her in action