The voice i found in silence
I’ve been talking a lot about choosing my own life lately.
About having the courage to make decisions — even when they cost me something.
But there’s a question that’s been sitting quietly underneath all of it:
How do I know that what I want… is actually mine?
Because the truth is — I don’t exist in a vacuum.
I was raised by people.
Surrounded by opinions.
Shaped by environments I didn’t choose.
And now I’m trying to make decisions that are supposed to be fully my own.
So, how do you separate your own voice from everything you’ve ever been told?
How do I tell the difference between—
the family voice, speaking loudly and urgently of tradition and safety…
the social media voice, constantly showing me what a “dream life” should look like…
the fear voice, crying and pulling at me, just wanting to keep me protected…
and then — somewhere beneath all of that —
my intuition, calm and steady, quietly reminding me that I’ll be okay no matter what I choose?
And how do I choose the right one to listen to?
I guess not all voices shout.
In fact, the loudest ones are rarely the truest ones.
And maybe that’s where most answers are found —
not in the noise, but in the silence.
In the quiet moments.
In the spaces where nothing is trying to convince me of anything.
In the feeling rather than the thinking.
Because when I really listen — without outside input, without comparison, without fear —
there’s something softer there.
There’s a small light right inside of me — I’d like to call it my direct connection to the divine.
Less dramatic. Less urgent. But somehow more certain.
And maybe that’s what truth sounds like.
Not overwhelming. Not demanding.
Just… steady.
Usually, I find answers in conversation — and I’m probably not the only one.
Clarity unfolds when I speak things out loud, when someone reflects something back to me.
But lately, it’s been the opposite.
The more conversations I had, the more irritated I felt.
The more opinions were offered — answers given on my behalf —
the quieter my own voice became.
Until I could barely hear it at all.
And maybe that’s what I needed to realise.
Not more perspectives.
Not more input.
Just… less noise.
And this is what I needed to do.
It’s a privilege — I know that — to be able to just get in the car and leave for a few days.
To step away from the noise.
From the opinions.
From the constant influence of the outside world.
I don’t take that lightly.
Not everyone has the space to leave and return when they need to.
Not everyone gets to pause like this — to create distance long enough to hear themselves again.
So I did.
I sat in the quiet.
In the stillness.
Long enough for the noise to settle.
Long enough for the other voices to fade.
And slowly — almost quietly — something shifted.
Not louder.
Not overwhelming.
But steadier.
Like my intuition was finding its way back to me.
Becoming clearer again.
More grounded.
More certain in itself.
So I wonder—
If no one could see my life…
If no one could approve or disapprove…
If there was no audience —
What would I choose?
What do I want to create with my life?
What do I want to be remembered for?
Maybe I don’t get clarity before I choose.
Maybe I get clarity because I choose.
And it seems like there comes a point where you can’t outrun a decision anymore.
Where life meets you at a quiet intersection —
and standing still is no longer an option.
You’ve thought about it long enough.
Turned it over from every possible angle.
Played out every scenario in your head.
And still — nothing feels fully certain.
Because maybe certainty was never the point.
Maybe the point was always movement.
It’s not pressure that brings you there.
Not urgency.
It’s something softer than that.
A subtle nudge. A quiet knowing.
A voice that doesn’t shout — but stays.
“It’s time. You’re ready. You can do this.”
And somehow, you believe it.
There’s this idea I’ve heard before —
that once you’ve made a decision, you’ll know if it was right
by the feeling it creates inside of you.
Because if it wasn’t,
your mind would immediately drift back to the other option.
You would feel the pull.
The resistance.
The quiet “no” underneath the “yes.”
It’s like shaking your head while hearing your own voice say “yes.”
And maybe that’s the sign.
That your body, your intuition — they already know.
Long before your mind catches up.
Long before you can explain it in words.
So maybe it’s not about finding the perfect answer.
Maybe it’s about choosing —
and then listening closely to what that choice awakens within you.
Because maybe the direction isn’t something you figure out in advance.
Maybe it’s something you feel your way into once you start moving.
The first step is always a step into the unknown.
It’s always accompanied by risk and uncertainty.
And yet — at the same time — for me, it holds excitement.
Adrenaline. A sense of wonder.
All the new possibilities that might open up.
Because I came back from my time in silence feeling lighter.
More content.
More aligned with my vision, my values, and my desires.
Not because I suddenly have all the answers.
Simply because I made a little more peace with what’s ahead.
With what I’m about to choose.
And with everything that comes with it —
including the uncomfortable conversations I know I can’t avoid.
And maybe that’s what clarity actually feels like.
Not certainty. Not ease.
But a quiet readiness to face what follows.
And I hope that one day, I’ll look back at all of this and know it was worth it.
That I wouldn’t have chosen differently.
That I’m glad I trusted myself enough to try.
To do it my way —
like old blue eyes sang more than fifty years ago.
Until we meet again, don’t be scared to sit in silence with yourself.