How Poetry Gave Me Back My Voice

I didn’t lose my voice all at once, I lost it like a slow leak.
Drip by drip.
A word held back here.
A truth swallowed there.

Not because I didn’t have things to say,
but because I learned early that saying them came with punishment.

I remember the sharpness of a slammed cupboard.
The way someone’s voice could snap across a room and make my shoulders lock.
The cold sting in my chest when I saw the look that meant
I’d said or did the wrong thing again.

At some point, I stopped trying.
I stopped offering opinions.
Stopped talking about my day at the dinner table.
Stopped making eye contact with almost everyone.

I became the shy one.
The easy one.
The one who didn’t ask for seconds or explanations or softness.

But even in all that silence,
I was still thinking.
Still feeling.
Still trying to understand why the world around me felt so wrong.

---

There was so much inside me that had no place to go…

I was twelve.
Walking home after school with my best friend,
the sun warm on my back,
the kind of afternoon where you think nothing bad can happen.

Then—
a car screeched to the curb.
Before I could blink, a large man grabbed me and forced me into the back seat.

My mother was in the passenger side.
She never looked back.
Just stared ahead, as if I were nothing but a stop sign in her rearview.

I remember the car smelling like old takeout and smoke.
My throat burned, but I didn’t scream.
I learned not to scream a long time ago.

We drove across provinces.
A backpack, one book, and a pair of socks is all I had.

That’s when I found the pen.
A cheap red ballpoint at the bottom of my bag.
I started writing on the back of a crumpled receipt.

Not a story.
Just a list.
Then the list became lines.
Then sentences. Then stanzas.
Then something else entirely.

I didn’t know it yet,
but poetry was finding me.

---

Pieces on paper

I don’t have that first poem anymore
but I remember it was about rain.
Not the kind that ruins plans,
but the kind that taps gently on your window
like it knows what you’ve been through.

That scrap of paper became my hiding place.
My prayer. My protest. My proof.

I didn’t call it poetry then.
It was just something I needed to say
when no one else was listening.

The only place where I wasn’t afraid of my own voice.
Where I didn’t have to water myself down to be safe.
Where the rules of survival didn’t apply.

---

Thirty-nine and trembling

By the time I was 39, I had already lived a thousand goodbyes.
I had tried therapy. More than once.
I’d poured my hurt into late-night Word docs,
journal pages torn out and hidden in drawers,
notes to no one.

But I never shared any of it.
Because part of me still believed it would be dangerous.
That if I spoke too loudly about what happened,
I’d be punished. Or worse—disbelieved.

Then came that poetry reading. I almost didn’t do.
I stood in the bathroom, hands shaking, reading the poem out loud to the mirror.
My throat tightened. I could barely meet my own eyes.
You don’t have to do this, I told myself.
But maybe you do.

My voice cracked halfway through the first line.
I kept going.
Line by line, word by word.
I told the truth in front of strangers.

And I remember the exact moment they went still.
Not out of judgment,
but because they were with me.
Every word landing somewhere soft in the room.

That night reminded me:
my voice is not too late.
It’s just right on time.

And still, some days, I feel that same knot in my stomach.
Especially now, as I prepare to release my poetry book, Sea Salt and Silence.
There are lines in there
that made me flinch when I typed them.
Memories I almost deleted.
Truths I almost softened.

But I left them in.

Because I’m not just writing for the woman I’ve become,
I’m writing for the girl I used to be.
The one who stared out car windows,
counting trees,
wondering if anyone would ever hear her.

This book is me,
reaching back.
Telling her:
we made it.
And our story matters.
Exactly as it is.

---

A prompt for your healing

Write a poem that starts with:
“When I stopped speaking, this is what I wanted to say…”

Let it be messy. Let it be real.
Don’t censor yourself.
This is for you.

Share a line or your whole poem in the comments if you'd like. I’ll be there, reading with an open heart.

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My inspiration corner

To support you wherever you are on your healing journey, here’s one book, one quote, and one song that reminded me that reclaiming your voice is a sacred thing:

📖 Book: The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo
A powerful novel-in-verse that reminded me that even when the world tells you to be quiet, your story still deserves to be told.

🖋 Quote:

"When you can’t find someone to follow, you have to find a way to lead by example. So I did."
— Elizabeth Acevedo

🎧 Song: Brave by Sara Bareilles
Every time I hear it, I remember that bravery isn’t about being unafraid, it’s about speaking anyway.

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Let’s keep the conversation going

I’d love to hear your thoughts. If this resonated with you, feel free to share your own experiences.

Let’s keep growing—together.

Debra 💛

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