The Way I See the World Has a Sound

People have always liked to hear me speak. But here’s the caveat — it was only when my voice fit the room.

Fitting sounded like church speeches. Papers read aloud. Words that were shaped to land softly, to reassure, to confirm what everyone had already agreed upon.

You see, when my voice stayed palatable, it was welcomed. When it stayed contained, it was praised.

But the problem is — THAT wasn’t my real voice. It was just an adapted one. My real voice — it sounds exactly like the way I perceive the world.

The way I question what others present as fact. The way I notice cracks in the story. How I track patterns that others just seem to skip past.

Patterns.
Theories.
Pauses that linger too long.

It’s in questions that don’t resolve neatly.

People always say I’m weird. And I finally accept that truth. Because the weirdness didn’t start when I began speaking — it started when I stopped editing.

That weirdness lives in my mannerisms.
The quietness that isn’t insecurity.
My body — soft, visible, unshrinking.
That love of loud colors.

It shows up in the refusal to smooth my edges just so that the room can stay comfortable.

And for a long time, I thought that the problem was how I spoke. But it wasn’t. It‘s what I‘m willing to say when I stop asking for permission.

And these days, my voice isn’t louder. It‘s just truer. And truth spoken from the body doesn’t sound like everyone else. It sounds recognizable.

Weirdness is often just perception that hasn’t been domesticated. A signal that others don’t know how to tune into yet.

But the women who need it? My tribe. We recognize the signal immediately. Because it sounds like freedom.

And it feels like someone who is finally speaking without shrinking.