On finding and cultivating a voice

Compared to a place like New York, Sydney's pretty small. But compared to a place like Milledgeville, it's big enough to feel like you're being swallowed whole.

I started blogging way before it was cool (think Xanga and LiveJournal), but the thought of sharing my life in this sort of virtual context didn't appeal to me again until 2013. There were journals and poems and essays far and wide, but nothing like this. I started to see how blogging could construct a vibrant community of likeminded people, and I wanted to be part of it.

So I started blogging. In part for my family and friends to feel included in a life that was happening halfway across the world, but also for myself - to find and cultivate a stronger voice. But then, something happened that I wasn't expecting: The dreaded nothing.

Nothing I wrote was widely read or largely popular. Though a few people here and there read my posts, my readers were almost entirely family and friends. People were accepting what I wrote, but they weren't asking for it. They weren't hugely challenged or moved or changed by it. I didn't feel like I was reaching people.

I didn't feel like my voice was being heard.

And then, I realised that it's okay if my voice isn't heard in the way I wanted or envisioned or planned. It isn't indicative of a voice that's too quiet or unimportant; rather, it's indicative of a voice that was created for a different venue. If there's one thing I've learned over the past few years, it's that when things aren't going as you truly, deeply, in-your-bones believe they should be going, the choices are simple. We can either wallow in the un-happening, or we can change our approach. I had this version of myself all mapped out, but that version isn't what's real. I'm not one of those people who naturally gains thousands of followers on social media or whose pictures are bombarded with complimentary comments.

But what I've found contentment in is that the reason I'm not that sort of person is because I'm a different, just as good, just as important, sort of person. My influence is quiet, but deep. My opinions are rare, but profound. My confidence is secure in a way that doesn't call attention.

Once, when my dad came to pick me up from high school, he made a comment as we were leaving that it was wonderful to see how positively so many different people reacted to me. I was confused. It wasn't until years later (read: now) that I understood what he meant. I'd always felt somehow disconnected from people because I didn't belong to one clique, but the beauty of that was it allowed me to connect with far more people than I thought, in a way that was far more kind than I realised.

This is my voice. The welcome home for whomever hears it. And there is a stillness in that voice that took me years to be happy with. In the midst of a social media generation, a world ruled by virtual congeniality, it can feel strange to not have the kind of voice that is conducive to immediate popularity.

In a place like Milledgeville, it's hard to not fit in. But in a place like Sydney, a place that feels big enough to swallow you whole, it's somehow easier to stay afloat.

It's easier to find your voice, because there's more space to sing.

What's your song?

A love letter to my city

Photograph taken by Branden Lee

Monday morning, I took a train across Sydney to my friend Amy's apartment. I needed to do laundry. I planned on coming home early in the afternoon to clean the apartment and write some thank you notes (they're coming, I promise). Instead, I stayed at Amy's apartment until 5:00PM, because neither Stephen nor I were comfortable with me taking the train.

Because just one train station away from our own home, there was a hostage situation. No one knew what was happening or if anything was happening elsewhere or when everything would be finished. You don't need me to give you the details; I'm sure you've either read about it already, and if you haven't, you can find articles easily.

The thing is, when my friends back in the States started messaging me to see if we were okay, I was a little surprised. This is Australia. This place is safe, right? We didn't just suffer the loss of 132 schoolchildren at the hands of the Taliban; we had one man, a convicted felon out on bail, bite off more than he could chew. It ended tragically, but with an outpouring of love, the likes of which I very rarely witness.

Here's the thing. In the middle of that Monday morning, I was a little bit worried and a little bit flustered, but I was not for one second doubtful that this place is a good one to call home. This city, where I've lived for such a short time, has made for itself a cozy spot in my heart, and days like yesterday remind me that my coming here is not situational.

My desire to live here is not situational or circumstantial or a product of Australia being the perfect vacation spot. This place, its people and its culture, even with all the ways it challenges my worldview and sense of normativity, is good for my soul.

It is like Christmas morning, every morning. You know, that feeling you get when you open the gift you really wanted but were afraid to ask for, and you got it any way, and it just doesn't seem real? For me, that's Sydney. That's Stephen and me making our home in Sydney.

And isn't it stellar when that feeling doesn't disappear in the face of fear or difficulty? Something Sydney has taught me, something Stephen has taught me, is that we know decisions are right not when they feel good for the most fleeting of moments. We know decisions are right when everything else seems to be going wrong, but we don't want to change our minds.

So here's to you, Sydney. For standing strong in the face of terror, for being kind in the face of prejudice, and for being a place I'm proud to stand with.