Part of the Voice I Almost Lost – Blog #7
by Alana Pierre Curry
If you’ve been following along, then you’ve seen the cracks forming.
Not all at once. Not in a dramatic, earth-shattering way. But slowly, consistently—layer after layer, year after year.
From being shuffled between households and schools to learning that protection wasn’t guaranteed… from being bullied on the school bus to feeling exposed in my own home… from quieting myself to keep the peace to performing just to be seen—I was learning how to disappear while still being present.
That’s how it happens sometimes.
The voice doesn’t leave all at once. It gets chipped away.
You learn when speaking up won’t change anything.
You learn that crying too loud makes people uncomfortable.
You learn that your body will be judged, no matter how it’s shaped.
You learn to laugh things off so others won’t feel guilty.
You learn to anticipate tension and shrink before it enters the room.
I learned all of that before I was old enough to vote.
And by the time I entered the professional world—the world of meetings, managers, deadlines, and performance reviews—I was already carrying years of silence. Not because I had nothing to say. But because somewhere along the way, I started to believe my voice only had value if it didn’t inconvenience anyone.
When you’re told to “be quiet” with words, stares, or silence… you start to listen.
When the people who are supposed to protect you look the other way… you stop expecting rescue.
And when your moments of joy are met with critique or control… you stop reaching for joy at all.
I was a fixer. A helper. A performer.
But I was also tired.
Tired of adjusting.
Tired of interpreting moods.
Tired of pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.
The loss of my voice wasn’t theatrical. It was subtle.
Not stolen. Just… surrendered.
And yet, something remained.
A whisper.
A hum.
A knowing.
That maybe—just maybe—my voice wasn’t gone.
It was waiting. For me.