Learning to Trust My Voice Again

There was a time when trusting my voice felt natural. I spoke, wrote, expressed, without second-guessing every word. Somewhere along the way, that changed. Not dramatically. Not because of one big moment. It happened slowly, quietly, through years of working, adapting, fitting in, and learning when to soften things, when to stay quiet, when to phrase something differently so it would land better or offend less.

I did not stop having opinions or thoughts. I just stopped fully trusting them.

Writing again has been my way back.

When I started writing consistently, first elsewhere and now here, I did not set out to rediscover anything. I just wanted a place to put my thoughts. A place that did not require permission. A place where I did not have to explain myself before saying what I felt. Over time, something shifted. The more I wrote, the less I edited myself in my head before the words even reached the page.

I realised how often I had been filtering my own voice. Wondering if this was interesting enough. If that was too much. If anyone would care. If I was allowed to take up this much space with my thoughts. Writing every day, and then every week, taught me something simple and uncomfortable. The voice I was waiting for was already there. I just had to stop interrupting it.

Trusting your voice again does not mean being loud. It does not mean having hot takes or shouting into the void. For me, it has meant allowing myself to be specific. To talk about food the way I taste it. To talk about books the way they make me feel. To talk about identity without needing to explain or defend it. To write a sentence and not immediately ask myself who it is for.

Some days, that trust feels solid. Other days, it wobbles. I still wonder if my interests are too varied. If writing about books, then food, then identity, then pop culture makes sense. I still ask myself if anyone out there actually cares what I think. That doubt has not disappeared. But it no longer controls the pen.

What writing has given me back is a relationship with my own inner voice. One that feels calmer. Kinder. Less rushed. I no longer feel the need to perform clarity before I have it. I let the writing find its shape as I go. Sometimes it is a full post. Sometimes it is just a paragraph that tells the truth well enough for that day.

Learning to trust my voice again has also meant accepting that it does not need to sound like anyone else’s. It does not need to be optimised, polished, or packaged. It just needs to be honest. When I allow that, something interesting happens. The writing feels lighter. And I feel more like myself.

I do not know exactly where this will lead. What I do know is that I am no longer waiting to feel ready. I am writing as I am. And for now, that feels like more than enough.

— Raulito