I love writing, because words written down on paper and typed up on documents are much easier for me to express than standing in front of people and trying to control the sounds tumbling out of my mouth too fast, tangling up between my teeth and tongue.
Since elementary school, my teachers have always told me to speak up in class, telling me to talk louder and more confidently. At first, it was because I didn’t understand English very well. But as the years passed, it wasn’t really about mastering a language anymore. It was about how every time I raised my hand and the teacher called on me, the words seemed to become stuck in my throat, unable to escape. I fumbled with my speech. I stammered. I didn’t know how to pronounce things. And to this day, it’s still a problem, which is why I prefer writing to speaking, instant messaging to face-to-face conversation.
Yet I learned that words aren’t everything, that words won’t solve everything.
Since elementary school, my teachers have always told me to speak up in class, telling me to talk louder and more confidently. At first, it was because I didn’t understand English very well. But as the years passed, it wasn’t really about mastering a language anymore. It was about how every time I raised my hand and the teacher called on me, the words seemed to become stuck in my throat, unable to escape. I fumbled with my speech. I stammered. I didn’t know how to pronounce things. And to this day, it’s still a problem, which is why I prefer writing to speaking, instant messaging to face-to-face conversation.
Yet I learned that words aren’t everything, that words won’t solve everything.
I have tried to talk several friends out of suicide. And every time, I’ve been struck by how words written over Facebook chat and Skype are meaningless when someone’s life is on the line. What’s the point of life is so much more than this, you don’t deserve to die, I promise it’ll get better soon if they are merely colored pixels on an electronic screen shifted around and rearranged to form letters?
Some days I’d sit in my room, stare at my desktop screen, and want to cry because I couldn’t find the words to save myself anymore. Some days I’d notice that the bones of my hands and wrists were sticking out but still didn’t think I’d ever be skinny enough. Some days I’d cry myself to sleep and never want to wake up again.
So I went back to writing, subtly referencing tears behind descriptions of gossamer threads in the air, fading away into dust and broken memories reflected in shattered mirrors. And as time went on, I learned that writing was a powerful tool that I could use to be heard. People paid attention to me when I wrote.
I learned that writing is my voice.
Our voices are not the phenomenon of our vocal chords vibrating to produce sound. Our voices are us. Our voices are when we stand up for what we believe in and ourselves, and when people hear us. Maybe the voices of others are too loud at times, drowning out our own desperate, but whispered, calls for help. We tend to retreat back to ourselves, silent while others crowd out our pleas.
So we need to learn how to use our voices, to be heard.
No, words are not everything, but they are something that I have. And it doesn’t have to be words. Words are my voice, writing is my voice to shout out across rooftops and into the sky so everyone in the world can hear. Maybe your voice is different. Maybe your voice is drawing, dancing, singing, speaking, playing a sport, playing an instrument, or just things you do every day.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that you find your voice. What matters is that you use your voice. What matters is that you find a way to make yourself heard above the voices around you trying to push you down and cast you away. What matters is that you let yourself be understood.
Every journey starts with a first step, and this is my first step. A flower cannot bloom beautifully unless it has been shaken, and perhaps life is shaking me right now, trying to wrench me away from the roots binding me to stable ground, but this is what life is about, isn’t it? There is no understanding of how beautiful life can be if there is no understanding of hardships. And in the end, the most important thing is that I stand up for myself and what I believe in, and help others understand that too.
Maybe I’m quiet, like how I sound whenever teachers call on me in the middle of class to answer a question. Maybe people won’t hear me. But this is the journey I’ve chosen to begin. There are thousands of steps ahead of me, and I have only taken the first. Anything is possible.
This is me, trying to save the world in a way. This is me, hoping to shout out above oppressors and make them hear me, make them understand my fight.
It starts with a voice.
Everyone has a voice.