Finding My Voice Without Becoming the Noise

There’s a strange tension that comes with learning to use your voice — especially when people have always seen you as strong, outspoken, or capable. From the outside, it might look like you’ve never had a problem saying what you think. But there’s a difference between having a personality and having permission.

For a long time, I had the personality.

I didn’t always have the permission — especially permission from myself.

I wasn’t “quiet” in the traditional sense. I wasn’t soft‑spoken or invisible.

My version of quiet was different:

I managed the emotional temperature of every room I walked into.

I kept the peace.

I held my tongue when it would have been easier to explode.

I swallowed things that hurt because dealing with the fallout felt worse.

I chose calm over conflict, even when calm cost me something.

That kind of quiet doesn’t look like silence.

It looks like strength.

It looks like competence.

It looks like “she’s fine.”

But inside, it’s still a form of disappearing.

So now, as I’m learning to speak from a truer place — not filtered, not softened, not shaped around other people’s comfort — I sometimes hear someone unhinged saying the exact same words I just said.

“I have a right to my opinion.”

“I won’t shrink.”

“I’m allowed to speak my truth.”

And my stomach drops.

Because I don’t want to sound like that.

I don’t want to be the person who rants online every day, fueled by anger and anxiety, convinced the world is falling apart because something didn’t go their way. I don’t want to be the person who weaponizes their voice, who escalates instead of expresses, who uses “my opinion” as a shield for chaos.

I don’t want to be the noise.

So when I hear someone spiraling, shouting, or attacking — and they’re using the same phrases I use — it makes me question myself.

It makes me wonder if I’m crossing a line.

It makes me wonder if I’m becoming someone I don’t respect.

But here’s the truth I’m learning:

It’s not the words that matter.

It’s the energy behind them.

Some people speak from rage.

Some speak from fear.

Some speak to dominate.

Some speak to provoke.

Some speak because silence feels like death to them.

And some of us speak because we finally realized we don’t have to disappear to keep the peace.

That’s the difference.

When I say, “I have a right to my voice,” I’m not trying to convert anyone.

I’m not trying to shame anyone.

I’m not trying to stir people up.

I’m not trying to win an argument.

I’m not trying to control anyone else’s beliefs.

I’m simply refusing to silence myself.

I’m speaking from clarity, not chaos.

From grounding, not panic.

From self-respect, not self-righteousness.

And the fact that I even question whether I’m becoming like the people who make me cringe…

that’s the proof that I’m not.

People who weaponize their voice don’t stop to ask if they’re crossing a line.

People who rant don’t pause to check their impact.

People who thrive on outrage don’t worry about becoming someone they don’t want to be.

But I do.

And that’s the difference.

I’m not adding to the noise.

I’m carving out clarity.

I’m not shouting into the void.

I’m standing in my own space.

I’m not trying to drown anyone out.

I’m simply refusing to drown myself.

Finding my voice doesn’t mean becoming the loudest person in the room.

It means finally trusting that my voice is worth hearing — even when I’m calm, even when I’m steady, even when I’m not performing outrage to prove a point.

In the end, finding my voice has nothing to do with the people who shout the loudest. It has everything to do with learning to trust myself — my tone, my truth, my timing. I’m not responsible for how others use their voices. I’m responsible for how I use mine. And I’m choosing to use it with intention, with steadiness, and with a kind of quiet strength that doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

I’m not here to rage.

I’m here to be real.

And that’s more than enough.