When I was in kindergarten, first grade, and second and third, even fourth… my yearly review always noted that I was so quiet. “She works really hard. Does well…but so quiet.” My mother – a defender from the start would always reply, “When she has something to say, she will say it.”

I carried that with me. It fit into that tiny place in my heart, and filled it. For that’s what I was doing – filling my heart, my soul, my brain, and my courage (wherever that is carried – probably in all of those places). I believed that when they were full, full all the way into my throat, that I would speak, really speak. But something magical happened. As I became more full, of knowledge, and hope and questions, and dreams, all these things began to channel to my hands. My hands. I had hoped to fill my mouth with all of these feelings, but they had a path of their own, and they went straight for my hands.

Whatever I was feeling, happy or sad, I would go into my room and draw a picture. Or write a poem. From the age of 5 or 6 it began. Slowly, softly. I had a voice, it was just coming through my hands.

Through the years, more people began to hear it. Hear it, me. Understand, me. I did have something to say, just a different way to say it. Words and colors mixed together to create a noise for all the world to see, to hear.

What’s even more beautiful, in finding my voice, I found a way to listen. Sharing my stories and life, opens others, and they feel safe to share their stories with me, with others. And to me, that feels like living. Really living. Each time someone tells me their story, I am filling up, able to share more, and it is a beautiful cycle. A beautiful noise.

We all have a voice. A story. Something to share. No one should be silenced. Listen. Share. Believe. “When you have something to say, say it.” Find a way. You have a voice. I’m listening.