Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?

Asheville, North Carolina

I was driving on I26 when I heard those words, my eyes opening wide as I took offense. I was caught off guard and felt the immediate gut punch of the emotional insult.

The insults continued. "No one gives a crap about what you have to say." I was so taken aback, hurt, and defensive that my voice faltered, and I didn't know how to respond. I couldn't believe someone could be so intentional in their unfeeling criticism of me.

I was pissed, to put it mildly. Especially knowing the person ruining my beautiful fall afternoon with mean and bitter recriminations was none other than myself.

That inner voice of mine can really get on my nerves.

That day started a personal crisis nearly five years ago for me. I had been struggling for a while with the direction of my life, and I had finally run out of the energy to continue to figure it out.

Tearing down the one thing I passionately believed, storytelling, made perfect sense to that voice in my head that doesn't ever seem to shut up. I had lost the nerve to fight it and gave in, believing everything I heard.

I stopped writing that day. I stopped doing the one thing I loved the most. I stopped believing that my voice mattered. I had the worst case of imposter syndrome, so much so that I shamed myself into losing faith in myself and my abilities. I regressed to the little girl I once was, and the underlying message I got was that I didn't matter. So I silenced myself and put down my pen.

"Writing down the bones," as the saying goes, is striving for the essential, awakening speech of the mind. My mind decided the bones weren't worth the effort, and I believed what I told myself.

I didn't know at the time that multiple sclerosis was starting to take over my body and mind, sending me into what would be years of self-isolation. After several years of life struggles, poor choices, health scares, and financial bondage, retreating from the world sounded like a pretty good idea. The fact that my body was attacking itself from the inside was the perfect vehicle to get me there.

I have always believed in the power of the human story. Words matter, including the words we tell ourselves. In that telling, in the middle of my body chewing away the myelin of my central nervous system, I stopped believing that my story mattered.

It's been a long five years, but the fog is lifting, and my power is returning. I now have new challenges, but I'm not scared anymore. This feeling of empowerment is liberating, and I breathe deeply again.

This clarity reminds me of why I love words and the stories they make when strung together with passion and history.

So, who the hell do I think I am?

I am me. Just me. And my story matters. So does yours.

This is my voice.

Hear me roar!

Until next time,