Growing up I remember being told I was too sensitive. I was gently encouraged to avoid things that might hurt. Therefore, I spent a good portion of my life protecting that sensitive, passionate part of me.
Shushing that quiet voice, until… life got too painful.
I didn’t walk cautiously into this new adventure, I ran recklessly full speed ahead. I began a year’s long training to be a spiritual director. I took multiple classes on Mindfulness meditation. Trying to learn to sit with the onslaught of emotions. I trained to become a Peace Circle Keeper. I took seminar after seminar on institutional racism… and then Trump became our country’s “leader”. What does one do with this much pain? I was about to find out. I was searching for my voice.
Because I live alone, there was no one to unpack all the pain, hate and vitriol encroaching on every aspect of my world. Now that I was embracing my inner empath, I couldn’t put it safely away in a “box”, protecting myself from its effects. I needed to find an outlet. I needed to find my voice.
An activist was born on January 21st, 2017 at the Women’s March in Washington D.C. It was my first protest march but it wouldn’t be the last. In the past four years I have attended many a rally, vigil, protest, and march, often by myself. Always with trepidation that ended in relief. Once I joined the crowd, I knew I wasn’t alone. I had a voice.
Putting pen to paper (actually words on a computer) was the one way I could navigate a world of emotions. I’m not now, nor will I ever be, a journal writer. Writing for the sake of writing didn’t help defuse my emotions. I needed to be less alone with them. I needed to be heard. So, I risked being laughed at and ridiculed and started a blog. I needed someone out there to hear my voice.
I also became prolific on social media. Putting into words the pain and hatred I felt in the world. My family rolled their eyes at me. Recently my son told me he’d blocked me on his account. Saying “I was just too much”. Another person close to me said, “I thought you were crazy, until I found something that I was that passionate about.” Most people close to me, just ignored me. It stung just a bit, but I wasn’t baring my soul for them. Putting the pain, anger and fear into words allowed me to let go of some of the heavy weight. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone. And it gave me a voice.
Recently I was triggered when someone close to me responded to one of my angry posts with, “I think u need a job”. I’ve been trying to figure out why that simple comment struck such a strong chord. And then I realized that “I think u need a job”, is just another way of saying… you should just smile more. The comment wasn’t disagreeing with something I had said, it was telling me to be quiet. It was a rebuke. It was telling me to put the empathic and passionate knowing I had so recently embraced back in the bottle. It was telling me I shouldn’t use my voice.
