Breaking the silence
Written by: Heidi Neubauer ND
Breaking the Silence: Learning the Language of My Voice There is a particular kind of quiet that forms when your voice has gone unused for too long. It isn’t the absence of sound—it’s the absence of permission. Permission to speak. Permission to take up space. Permission to trust that what you feel and need matters.
Finding your voice after a long silence is not graceful. It doesn’t arrive fully formed or perfectly timed. Often, it stumbles out—too early or too strong, hesitant or misplaced. There are missteps, misunderstandings, and moments that feel awkward or uncomfortable. This, I am learning, is not failure. It is practice.
Using your voice is like activating a dormant muscle. It aches when you begin. It trembles under the weight of unfamiliar use. And it requires consistency, gentleness, and patience to strengthen.
So I remind myself to pause. To centre. To ground. To speak from the heart rather than from fear or urgency. And equally important, to listen—to myself and to others—to sense when silence is still needed and when it is time to speak.
As I do, I watch the world shift. Conversations change. Relationships reveal themselves more clearly. Some deepen. Some strain. Some quietly fall away. I begin to see that when I speak more honestly, the world responds more honestly too.
I also begin to see myself more clearly.
For much of my life, I did not prioritise my own needs. Not because I didn’t have them, but because I learned—consciously or unconsciously—that it was safer not to lead with them. Over time, this shaped the way I showed up in the world and what I allowed into my life. It shaped what I tolerated. What I carried. What I believed I could ask for.
Now, as I begin to find my voice in these spaces, discomfort rises. Doubt creeps in. I question my desires and wonder if they are justified.
Am I allowed to want more?
What will happen if I ask?
Will my truth bring clarity—or will it create chaos and pain?
There are moments when I feel small and unsure, like a toddler taking their first steps—wobbly, cautious, and painfully aware of how easily I might fall. I find myself wondering when speaking became so difficult. When honesty started to feel like risk rather than relief.
At times, I question my sensitivity. Is being so attuned to energy a gift—or a burden? Why do I instinctively hold space for others, often before tending to myself? Why does my awareness of others’ emotions feel louder than my own needs? I wonder if past traumas taught me that I am strong enough to carry more. That I should take less. That if I soften my needs, others won’t have to feel discomfort. And yet, in doing so, am I slowly abandoning myself? Am I unintentionally teaching the world that my voice can wait?
Breaking the silence is a skill I am still learning. Right now, it feels like a foreign language—one I understand in theory but struggle to speak fluently. My words sometimes come out awkwardly. I misread cues. I say too much or not enough. I misunderstand, or am misunderstood.
So I ask for grace—both from myself and from others.
If I speak too soon.
If I choose the wrong words.
If I miss the mark entirely.
I do not intend harm. I am learning to honour truth without violence, honesty without defensiveness, and boundaries without blame. I am learning that my voice does not need to be perfect to be valid.
This chapter of my life is not about being right. It is about being real. It is about trusting that authenticity, even when imperfect, is kinder than silence that erases me.
And perhaps most importantly, it is about remembering that finding my voice does not mean silencing others. There is room for all of us. There always has been.
I am learning to speak.
I am learning to listen.
And I am learning that my voice—just as it is—is worthy of being heard.
There is a particular kind of quiet that forms when your voice has gone unused for too long. It isn’t the absence of sound—it’s the absence of permission. Permission to speak. Permission to take up space. Permission to trust that what you feel and need matters.