This struggle to live my own truth is so difficult, so wearing. – Anaïs Nin
Another year gone by. My life felt like the movie Groundhog Day. Every day and every year the same. I wondered: Is this all there is? There were more years behind me than ahead of me, and that scared me. I hadn’t yet scratched the surface of what I wanted to do. There were still places to explore, experiences to encounter, and accomplishments to achieve.
Did it all have to be downhill from here? The depression settled around me like a thick fog. There seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. Entering my sixth decade, I realized that if I didn’t act now, I may not have another chance. This was my third and final act of life. I needed to do something. There was a retreat nearby, so I decided that going there would help me get out of my funk.. I packed up and headed to the retreat center.
It was in the middle of nowhere—no phone, TV, internet, or even cell phone reception. I was completely isolated. At first, I felt guilty for ignoring what I should do. I should be available if anyone needed me, respond to messages, and take calls. Plus, there's housework, laundry, and that endless list of things I should tackle.
I couldn't imagine having nothing to do, so I came with lots of books and journals. There were lovely hiking trails, and I felt I needed to hike for the exercise. I felt so isolated that I hiked to the highest hill to get cell phone reception. There was no one to talk to and no way to connect with the outside world.
In time, I napped when I felt tired, ate when I wanted to, and sat on the porch to relax. Instead of hiking for exercise, I enjoyed a leisurely stroll and resting on the bench by the stream. The shoulds kept rearing their ugly heads, but they had started to grow quieter. Solitude was calling.
To make the right choices in life, you have to get in touch with your soul. To do this you need to experience solitude, which most people are afraid of, because in the silence you hear the truth and know the solutions. – Depok Chopra
Voices and words had been drowning out the message that called to me in the silence. As I became quiet, I began to hear. While packing, I had thrown in some paper and crayons at the last minute. Drawing had never been my medium of choice. One evening, even though it felt uncomfortable, I started to draw. Emotions flowed, and a message emerged. The voice I had suppressed for so many years was shouting to be heard. It was time to unleash that voice.
Over the years, I’ve had a recurring nightmare. I’m in danger or someone is chasing me, and I’m trying to scream for help, but no sound will come out. I wake up, usually sitting up in bed, trying to scream, only able to get out a strangled little cry. My ex-husband would wake up wondering what in the world was going on. The image that emerged from my drawing was my voice blocked, unable to get out.
As a child, I was labeled the shy, quiet one. Did I lose my voice or did I ever have one? It was the old dilemma: if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If I spoke and no one listened or acknowledged what I had to say, did I have a voice? At a young age, I learned that if I spoke up and received any acknowledgment, I would likely face ridicule.
As the youngest in the family, it was easy to be ignored. My brother was the eldest, only son, and also the sickly one that Mom pampered. He relished that role, becoming overbearing. One day after school, I felt upset. I asked my mom to come into my room to talk. I have no memory of what I wanted to talk about, but it was a big deal to me. After I told her, my brother asked her, “What was that all about?” and she told him. He proceeded to mock me. That day I lost trust and decided it was best not to speak up.
More often than not, when I got the courage to speak up in relationships, I was put down or ridiculed. So, I shut up and shut down. I didn't realize how often others ignored and interrupted me until someone else brought it to my attention.
I didn’t speak up when a nice man at church molested me. He always gave me candy, so I felt confused. Instead of telling anyone, I stayed silent. I accepted the blame for hurting his feelings. I thought keeping my distance was wrong. I believed I was protecting myself and others by staying silent to avoid upsetting anyone. I stayed silent to protect everyone else’s feelings.
Now, I see things from a new perspective. Was my mom so naïve that she thought she didn’t need to be concerned because he was a member of the church? I was never warned about the old man who gave little girls candy. Years later, when other moms worried about the old man who gave candy to their girls, my mom said it was all innocent. I never spoke up. In our family, talking back or disagreeing with Mom wasn’t allowed.
Inside, I was screaming: They’re trying to protect their little girls. I was a little girl. Why didn’t you protect me?
But the price I paid was that no one protected me. This vulnerability triggered years of disconnection between my body and my emotions.
Silence became my prison. The less I used my voice, the less voice I had. Staying silent came with a high price; it made me feel invisible. Being invisible felt safe. It was easier to stay quiet—keeping thoughts, feelings, and especially my voice inside. It became so tiring. It wore me down, locking me away.
But there was a passion inside that wouldn’t shut up. Write a book, it was whispering. Writing had been a dream I had for as long as I could remember—one I’d suppressed for years. Who was I, after all, to write a book?
When I finally contemplated how to find my voice, the tears of shame fell. How could I have the audacity to think I have anything to say that anyone would want to read? I’ve struggled and wasted more years than I have left. I’ve made poor choices, screwed up over and over, fallen down, and taken the wrong path. I have been afraid more often than I have been brave.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. – Maya Angelo
Returning from the retreat center, I was determined to finally write my book but life got in the way, and my book kept getting put on the back burner. Other people’s needs and desires seemed to be more important. Instead, I found myself reading books, planning, making lists, outlines, and dreaming about writing—anything but sitting down and writing.
When I finally picked up my pen, I tried to write the book I believed other women needed; the one that felt safe. I couldn’t move forward until I realized I needed to write the book I needed. I began writing stories that revealed who I am. They showed my deepest needs, fears, thoughts, and feelings. As I took off my masks and embraced my nakedness and vulnerability, I knew that others would criticize, misunderstand, and judge me.
Letting out my words, the truth in my heart, scared the hell out of me. It felt like Mission Impossible: this is your mission, if you choose to accept it. . . But the words wouldn’t stay inside any longer. The debris of my doubts and fears had dammed up the words inside me like a stream. I found that words, like water, are strong. They can shift even the biggest, toughest rocks. Once the flow started, the more powerful it became. There was no stopping it. Putting my words on paper was the beginning. There was no turning back.
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
or welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
– Audre Lorde, A Litany for Survival, poem
The journey to the edge has been full of detours, backtracking, and slow baby steps. This isn’t the book I intended to write. I picked up my pen and let go of my plan. I stopped thinking about what I should write and focused on the truth in my heart. As a result, the book evolved into something more than my journey; it became my journey. No more running away. It was time to lose the wimp, put on my warrior, and finish strong.
Your Warrior Journey
How do you use your voice?
When have you taken a leap?
What were the results?
Have you ever taken a solitary retreat? If so, what did you discover?