I’m feeling a tad down today. I know that putting my deepest fears, sorrows, and heart on the paper has held me many times over, and I have some things to say. I’m in the space of loss, as my voice is a big part of who I am. But also, I feel gratitude for the fact that I’m alive and breathing. I’ve learned over many previous experiences that the healthiest way to move through things is to feel it and love and nurture myself through the pain. Pretending it’s not there and trying to put a band-aid over it will only haunt you, a ghost of yourself. The sorrow part is never too far behind, and it will catch up to you. No matter how many shields you put in front of it, it’s always there.
I also know that living in the darkness far too long will consume your personality, identity, and you’ll no longer recognize yourself. Finding what is working even in the most challenging moments, and doing something you love to do, keeps your identity and personality grounded, even through the hurt. So, today I felt it. I felt all the things that have twisted my heart just a little. I felt the comment from a loving friend that her brother is a singer, which would be his worst nightmare. “Yes,” I whispered. “Indeed, it is.”
A few days ago, I sat at the piano, the notes speaking to my fingertips as I played some of my favorite songs. It comes naturally for me to want to sing with the notes. I opened my mouth, and the sound didn’t come like it once used to so freely. My heart twisted just a little, and I cried. The tears dripped down my face as my fingers, and the piano expressed together what my voice could not. I felt gratitude for the sound underneath my fingertips.
I canceled all my speaking engagements and events, and my heart twisted just a little as my calendar only held blank spaces and appointment dates. I felt sorrow for not chatting and sharing with all these amazing people, and frustration as speaking and hosting is something I love to do, but I felt gratitude that I found a doctor who’s leading me.
I attempted to order from the McDonalds menu for my kids. I tried three times, each time feeling more irritated that they couldn’t hear me. My kids will have to order soon. My heart twisted a little, but gratitude that they’re old enough to do that came in.
The number of times I’ve heard, “I can’t hear you, and why aren’t you talking to me. That’s rude,” has baffled me and opened my eyes, where a part of me doesn’t want to be around people so that I don’t come across as an inconvenience. The other part of me feels like there’s a huge lack of communication in our society. It’s all about sound and not about presence or facial expressions, as the phone takes up our time. My heart twists again, just a little bit.
I’ve appreciated my evenings with my dog even more, as we sit on the grass, side by side, and we stare at the trees, birds, and sky. He seems to understand me in stillness, and that’s been healing.
When the doctor mentioned to me, “I want you to know that this is not all in your head. We’ll figure it out,” I wept. I didn’t know how much I needed that validation until it was said. I’ve tried to pretend for a while that I’d wake up, and miraculously, my pain would go away, and the sound would come back.
I’ve never been more grateful for sign language, writing, whiteboards, and the piano—so many other beautiful ways to communicate. And, yet I miss my voice. It feels like an identity loss for me, and I mourn that. I remember as a kid being told I talked too much, but I’ve loved that part of myself. The nurse recently reminded me that we often use our voice box multiple hours a day, stretching it, and we often forget how much work it’s doing for us consistently. I’ve never really thought about that until now. I have a sports injury, and just like you need to take time to heal from fractures and broken bones, your voice needs that love and time too. I sit in silence in gratitude for what I have, and my heart is twisted just a little for what I’ve lost for right now.
