Your Voice.

Dawn Henderson
Jun 30
3 min read

I realise I should have posted a blog on Sunday.

There was one, half-written in drafts, not yet fully formed. But it didn’t feel right to finish it.

This weekend I felt heavy, unfulfilled, frustrated. I tried to prompt myself into achieving the blog. The idea was there, but it remained unwritten. Partial attempts felt unsatisfying and uninspiring.

What did I have to say that hadn’t already been re-purposed, re-shared, re-posted, and regurgitated in the collective narrative of social media and wellness spaces?

There is a myriad of platforms with a plethora of sage, short burst of insights quotes, hooks and self-growth information, that can overwhelm. A continual carousel of posts of self-growth tips, affirmations and "ways of being". Catchy and curated soundbites offering bite-sized wisdom. Digital and digestible truths. An endless stream of inspiration shouting at me "Why haven't you figured it out yet?"

A few weeks ago, I’d promised myself I’d blog every Sunday. I’d blocked out the time, built the scaffold. It made me feel in control. Grounded. Safe.

And for a short while it worked. The words came easily, almost waiting to be written.

But this weekend felt different. Heavy. Muddled. I had no spark. No energy. No clarity.

I stopped feeling inspired .I was hot and tired. I felt lacking.

I tried to push through. Tried to be inspiring .But the words would not land. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt mine.

I felt… fraudulent.

Who was I to even think I could?

I longed for my words and ideas to be a force for calm or good. To matter.

But instead, I felt like an imposter.

And so I avoided, postponed, distracted, procrastinated.

I scrolled, tidied, ate, my executive dysfunction hijacking my desire and drive. I created… nothing.

That’s not quite true.

I created judgement, a tangle of anxiety, and a deep knot of shame, the kind that loops in your chest and whispers:

“You failed again.” and “What’s wrong with you?”

Now, as I write, I can see these are my barricades to authenticity. Internal parts. Cynical voices. Familiar cautionary companions.

The worst kind of backseat drivers.

I’ve linked my lack of production to my sense of worth.

A truth I’m already painfully aware of and working on.

But deeper still, when I go down reflect and more keenly attune to self, I find something even sharper:

The belief that my ideas, voice, and creations don’t really have a place in the world.

That resistance, a blend of echoing criticism, accusations of arrogance, and fear.

I sit with this discomfort as I write. A knot in my belly. A flushed face. A tight jaw, as if my body is still trying to keep me from speaking.

I realise: I've been hiding my voice. Silencing it. Not by lying, but by wrapping it neatly in the wisdom or permission of others.

And that wisdom is valuable, it shaped me. But it’s not all of me.

Because I too have wisdom. Insight. Courage. A story to tell.

So do you!

And these words, right here, are my story.

Hesitant.

Not fully formed.

But real.

No posturing. No polish. Just presence.

Just as imagine, like yours.

I had been reaching for a way of writing, being, and producing that wasn’t mine.

Scripts, schedules, and sentiments borrowed from others, that aligned with my values gave the illusion of insight and inspiration and control.

But they eventually left me feeling empty, like a briefly satisfying meal.

And maybe that’s the truth I was avoiding all along:

My own voice—my imperfect, unscripted, uncertain voice—is all I have.

So what happens when I stop performing?

When I don’t show up with fresh insight or polished wisdom?

"I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories from your life,-not someone else's life-,water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom. That is the work. The only work.” Clarissa Pinkola Estes - Women Who Run With Wolves.

Does my voice still matter? Does yours?

Yes, every shaky and uncertain part of it is valuable and worth space and place in the world.

It is a rich pattern of your truth, a blue print and language of your unique self.