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?

Becoming + settling

There was a season in my life (think adolescence) when anything my dad said to me would have been inclined to go in one ear and out the other, but now? When my dad takes the time to advise and counsel me, to speak about the talents he sees in me, I consider it a treasure. While I was visiting my parents in Georgia, my dad took some time to talk to me about this space. How he loves what I write, but thinks I have more to say.

This space has changed a lot since I first started documenting last year. I write with more focus but less detail, more the lesson and less the experience, per se. And while I would argue that the things I write about carry a lot of weight, they're sort of (somehow, also) superfluous. It means something, but there's not much to it. I think my writing speaks for itself, which is good, but that means there's rarely room for a broader conversation.

A few weeks ago, after a day that left me feeling lost, Stephen reminded me that one of the hardest things in life is becoming who you were meant to be. Some people never get there, but I want to. I thought about the upcoming months of my life, and what I want to make of them. I thought about my online presence, and how I want it to speak to people. How I want to speak clearly and with integrity, but I also want to be welcoming and compassionate, and I don't want to measure my worth by means of likes and pageviews. And how do I combine all of these things?

I don't think I'll ever fall into the category of "lifestyle blogger," as much as I enjoy reading them, but I'd like to do more than review books and talk about my weekends. I'm not sure where I'm going with all of this, or what I'll be writing about in the near future. Of course, I want this blog to have a cohesive feel, but I know that change can be incredibly good, if we're open to it.