Once, my voice was a thief’s prize. Silenced, stifled, taken in the dead of night—an offering to someone else’s story, not mine. I became a hollow woman, a puppet on their stage, lips moving but soundless, thoughts shriveled into whispers I dared not hear. I was nothing but a shadow stretched long over years, my breath borrowed, my words buried beneath their laughter. But oh, how the silence seared.
There comes a day, doesn’t there, when the silence is unbearable, and something in you rises, some creature you thought had long since died. It shakes off the dust, claws out of your chest, and growls: “Enough.” That voice—your voice—demands to be heard. At first, it stumbles, a newborn fawn struggling to stand. But soon, it knows its legs. Soon, it knows its worth.
And that’s when the reclamation begins.
Piece by piece, you steal back what was stolen. You whisper your name into the wind, scream it into the void. You write it in blood if you have to, knowing it is yours, and no one can take it again. Your voice, once smothered, swells. It becomes your weapon, your shield, your solace. It is your song.
To speak now, to breathe freely, is to live. But not the life they carved out for you. No, you tear that script apart. You scribble your own lines, words born of brokenness but rising in beauty. You stand, not as a victim, but as a force. Unapologetic. Fierce.
The world opens in front of you, and you walk it with your own voice as your compass. Not every step is graceful, not every note is pure, but it is yours. And in that raw, defiant sound, you reclaim not only your voice but your very self.
This, then, is freedom. This is the power they can never touch again.
B 🤍
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