You Have Something To Say

Never let your truth be diminished or your voice go unspoken, you have something to say, little one.

When I was a little girl, some of my happiest memories were tremendously simple, yet incredibly loving. My Grandpa lived about eight hours from us, so I didn’t get to see him very often. When we would visit, the house always smelled like something savory was cooking, and I’d sit in my Grandpa’s den on the cracked leather couch which was softened from age, and so deep to my tiny frame, that I was swallowed up in it. While he was at work, I would take my doll, and playhouse in the cedar closet, which held his ice cream colored cardigans with the alligator on them.


When he would come home from work, I would hide in the closet until he greeted Grandma, and then he would come in to read the paper in his favorite chair. I would stealthily inch out of the closet, while he pretended not to see me, until I climbed up in his lap. He would twinkle at me, saying nonsense such as ‘where did you come from?’ I would fish around in his shirt pocket and there would be two pieces of candy with strawberry wrappers, I would suck on the first one, while he would read the funnies out loud to me, in whimsical voices.

Then he would move onto current events, and talk about people in places I had never been or heard of, and what they stood for, how they lived, how fortunate we were to not have to walk a mile a day to bring dirty water for our family.

He would tell me that each person had unique gifts to give to others, but first they had to use their voice to state their truth. His eyes bright, he would say, ‘never let your truth be diminished or your voice go unspoken, little one, you have something to say.’

The comfort I received from this wonderful man was in stark contradiction to the daily reality of my life with my parents and brother, and I held fiercely to those unbridled feelings of being loved, cherished and encouraged.


For a long time, I didn’t know where my voice was in the vastness of my jumbled thoughts, and the untangling of developmental trauma. I would think about what my Grandpa said every so often, stomping down that small voice inside, shame being louder, fear of my voice not being ‘good enough’ to share with anyone else. I journaled, wrote bad poetry and prose, vomiting out thoughts and emotions onto the paper, but never told anyone.

The challenge of processing, through expressive writing, the seemingly endless maelstrom of betrayal, abject abuse and emotions that were evoked as a result, was my way of release, but the idea of letting anyone see it, see me, was terrifying.


And while my attitude had changed, one thing had not. I still wouldn’t share my work.

I didn’t have a term for this kind of writer’s block, if that’s indeed what it was. I was writing. I just couldn’t share what I was writing.

One day I sat down to journal and out poured a piece about my inner child work. The little girl, who had been stuck in time, frozen from the word ‘go,’ brought her voice to the surface. She had been blocked.

I had been blocking her.

‘My eyes saw the flowers, not through my adult eyes, but through the eyes of my Little. Positive, nourished and loved. My tulips loved the earth, and sun, and water, and I loved them. They were beautiful, and I felt beautiful inside too. She felt comforted, and so did I. We walked through the process together, and I realized that maybe my role with my Littles now, was one of comfort. I could comfort her, but in reality she nurtured me.’

I needed a rebirth before I could pass through an outgrowing of my fear.

In my early twenties, I entered therapy for the first time. I was diagnosed with PTSD, and landed in a sun-filled office with a wonderful woman named Donna. She had the kindest blue eyes I’d ever seen. She gave me homework, books to read and thoughts to ponder. We did EMDR and brain spotting. She listened to me. She said I hear you. I hear your voice, and it’s safe for you to state your truth. Her eyes would tear up when I told her about the nightmares, the seemingly endless abyss of my mental health, the fragility of my over-saturated psyche.

She validated my pain. No one had ever done that for me. Not even my Grandpa, my immediate familial abuse thrived in secrecy.

The slant of my writing changed, the pen had new ink, my paper was crisp and heavy.

At times it was tear-stained and fragmented, but I kept persevering. It felt like I was finally friends with my words. They would never let me down, if I trusted. They heard me, and kept me focused on being true to myself.


It started to unclog pain-caked arteries, letting her write, and take the reigns. She peeked around the corner, opening up the parts of my voice that were silencing the rest of me.

The first time I published a piece, and it resonated with others in situations like I had been in, and they wrote about their pain, using writing as a window to discharge hurt and tremors, I felt rejuvenated.

Restoration was happening. I now had a relationship with my writing.


I have something to say. And it is worthy, messy and beautiful. And you have something to say. It is as bold, and as amazing as you are. Don’t let the hurts, shame, and abrasive pain of the past stifle your voice, holding you in fear. Refuse to dim your courageous spirit. Repel the shame, put pen to paper, tell your story and help others. You have gifts to give us. And whether you realize it or not, we want them.

Never let your truth be diminished or your voice go unspoken, you have something to say, little one.