Over the past several years, as a writer and podcaster, I have been rediscovering and reclaiming my voice.

I think we are all born with a unique voice and all our voices are amazing and awesome. We are not meant to be characters in a dystopian novel, all speaking in a monotone in our matching grey uniforms. We are meant to be vibrantly, gloriously, radiantly different.

But for years, I struggled with claiming my own voice. I was deeply affected by a few life experiences, and instead of shrugging those moments off, I internalized them, let them fester, and put a muzzle on my voice.

Those key life moments were:

• During my senior year of high school, my religion class was working on some sort of vocational worksheet. I sat next to my frenemy and said, “Hey, standup comedian. I bet that would be fun.” My frenemy said, in a snide voice I can still hear in my head, “Yeah, but you would have to be funny to do that.” And fuck, that comment was like a gut punch to my stomach. I am funny, in my own way. Not everyone thinks I am funny, and that is okay. We all have our own unique sense of humor. But I have been told, countless times in my life, that I am absolutely hilarious. In high school, I made people laugh all. the. time. But this one remark, from my frenemy, pulverized me. My frenemy said I was not funny, and her one opinion outweighed the other 99 people who laughed at my humor.
• Not long after, during my first weeks as a freshman in college, I was walking to a dormitory with a friend. I was not destined to stay friends with this particular woman. We had just happened to meet during those early tender friendless days, and latched on to each other. What we had was not really a friendship. It was more like we were the friendship equivalent of life vests until we could meet our actual friends. But as we were walking, I said something, and I can’t remember if I said “shit” or “fuck” or both, but this new friend responded, “Can I ask you something? Do you have to curse so much?” I laughed. I thought she was joking. “Does my swearing offend you?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, in a cold judgmental voice. My whole body was flooded with shame. I apologized and endeavored to swear less. I felt like my potty mouth made me a bad person and that I would not make any friends in college if I swore as much as I am inclined to swear.
• And lastly, I took a creative writing class during my freshman spring and the professor did not like me or my writing. He made that abundantly clear in front of my classmates. I wrote quirky, funny stories. He thought they were a waste of time. What did I know? He was the professor. I was the student. I gave up on my dream of taking more creative writing classes and stuck to my History Major.

After those experiences, I started to silence my voice. I wrote an op-ed column for the college newspaper that was quirky, but I agreed to be the op-ed editor because that would look better on my resume. As the editor, I was not allowed to write columns any more. Then, I went to law school and learned how to write sterile, boring legal documents and hostile, humorless letters. In order to write like a proper lawyer, I had to crush my own unique voice.

But during all those years that I muzzled my voice, I could never silence myself completely. There was my blog, Wendy the Cactus, which shared the adventures of a bitchy cactus. Then there was my other blog, The Cranky Pumpkin, where I started writing whatever felt right and authentic to me.

Having postpartum depression actually helped me reclaim my voice. I thought at first that I had to keep my mental illness a secret, but the secrecy was killing me from the inside. I started to tell people about my experiences, and slowly, I realized that I did not care what other people thought. Some were incredibly supportive. Some were not, but I felt good sharing my story no matter what the reception.

I was starting to stop giving so many fucks about the critics. I was becoming more interested in speaking my mind in the way that feels natural to me.

Strangely enough, being the Room Mom for Pippa’s kindergarten class really helped me break away from my self-imposed muzzle. In the beginning of the year, I wrote sterile emails to the parents about upcoming potlucks and field trips. But over time, the emails got a little snarky. Parents told me they liked the snark. And before I knew it, I was writing my emails freely and explosively, and having a good time. Writing emails in my own authentic voice was exhilarating.

The past few weeks, I feel like I have leveled up again and reclaimed even more of my unique voice. I have started making an activity book called The Distance Learning Activity Book For Parents Just Barely Holding On To Their Last Shred of Sanity. It makes me happy and hell yes, I will be publishing it on Amazon as soon as I’m done.

I also have an idea for a novel about a room mom that I am going to start writing in a few weeks during NaNoWriMo. I love the fantasy series I am working on, but that is slow work and feels a bit serious. Right now, with all the insanity of 2020, I need to write in a way that is light-hearted and joyful. I am so excited to work on my room mom novel.

I’m 41 year old now, and I’m just too damn old to worry about the haters. Haters gonna hate. I am going to keep speaking and writing in the way that feels right for me.