Part of the Voice I Almost Lost – Blog #24
by Alana Pierre Curry
It has been a bit of time since I last sat down to write. Sometimes life gets full—full of tasks, full of voices, full of expectations. You move from one thing to the next, holding the weight of what others think, what they need, what they expect. And before you know it, your own voice grows faint in the background.
When that happens, sometimes the only thing left to do is be still. To gather your thoughts. To regroup.
Stillness can be a gift. It allows space for breath, for clarity, for rest. But stillness can also be deceiving. Stay in it too long, and it starts to feel like safety—like a place where no one can judge, question, or disagree. And while that can feel comforting, it can also become a quiet kind of stagnation.
Because while your spirit needs rest, it also needs purpose. The work must continue. Your light must continue to shine.
When doubt creeps in—the kind that whispers, “Maybe this path isn’t meant for you”—pause long enough to remember: every road, every lesson, every detour has led you here. You have grown, you have achieved, and you have found fulfillment in your progress. You don’t need permission to continue. You just need to remember why you started.
And yet, finding your footing again also means facing the noise around you—the opinions, advice, and contradictions that can leave you questioning your own perspective. I find it interesting when people say, “You do you,” or, “Feel free to push back,” but then quickly remind you of how they would do it instead. It makes me wonder: do they really want another perspective, or do they just like the sound of openness?
It would be easier, maybe even more respectful, if people could simply say, “I’m set in my ways. I might not want pushback, but I recognize that about myself.” Because mixed messages, those that say “share your thoughts” while closing the door on new ideas, create confusion, not collaboration.
I try to remember that about myself, too. I have ways of doing things, and habits that make sense to me. But I can’t grow if I’m unwilling to listen. My way isn’t always the right way. My voice isn’t the only voice, even when I feel confident in what I know.
Those moments—when we stop to consider another perspective—are opportunities for growth. They are opportunities to make space for others to be heard. Opportunities to practice humility, patience, and understanding.
And here’s what I’m learning: being open to others doesn’t diminish who I am. It refines me.
So when I feel the urge to retreat or to stay silent, I remind myself of this: my voice still has purpose. My light still matters. My joy, my smile, my perspective—those things were never meant to hide in stillness.
They were meant to live, to reach, to connect.
And that, I think, is where the true balance lies—in the space between stillness and growth.