“Not every voice deserves a microphone.”

How many years have you let that voice run the show?

You know the voice.

The one that says you’re falling behind.
The one that second-guesses every move you make.
The one that replays every awkward moment like it’s on a loop.
The one that whispers you’re too much, too little, too late.

Somewhere along the way, it started sounding like the truth.

But it’s not.
It’s just a voice.
And it’s not even yours.

You weren’t born with that critic.
You picked it up.

From the parent who never let up.
From the teacher who only noticed when you messed up.
From the friend who made you feel like you had to earn your space.
From a culture that sells inadequacy as motivation.

And you? You absorbed it.
Because that’s what people do to survive.

You made it sound like you.
You gave it your tone, your timing, your language.
And then, without even realizing it, you started following its rules:

Be smaller.
Be quieter.
Be better.
Be less.

But here’s the thing:

You’re not the voice in your head.
You’re the one who’s listening.

If you want to know who you are, turn down the volume on who you’re not.

Not every voice in your head deserves authority.
And once you know that, you don’t have to believe everything you hear.

Some voices come in like bullies—loud, sharp, relentless.
Others sneak in like anxious protectors, trying to keep you from feeling hurt, judged, or not enough.

But just because a voice is familiar doesn’t mean it’s true.
Just because it’s loud doesn’t mean it’s wise.
Just because it sounds like you doesn’t mean it’s for you.

Once you stop mistaking that voice for truth, you can start rewriting the story.

In therapy, we call it externalizing the narrative—giving the voice a character, a shape, even a name.

You can name it.
You can separate it from your identity.
You can treat it like a character, not the narrator.

The anxious one? Maybe it’s a scared child who needs reassurance.
The critical one? Maybe it’s an old echo of someone who didn’t know how to love you well.
The one that spirals and catastrophizes? Maybe that toddler just needs to be allowed to ride quietly in the shopping cart until the tantrum passes.

Not every voice deserves a microphone.
And not every thought is a truth.

That’s the moment everything shifts. When you realize you can notice a thought without obeying it.
You can pause. Question it. Even rewrite it.

Viktor Frankl once wrote:
“Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

Because your thoughts are not orders.
Your fears are not facts.
And the voice in your head, however loud it’s been, is not the same as your voice.

You are allowed to turn the volume down.

And in doing so, you make room for a different kind of voice.
One that feels unfamiliar at first, because it’s not trying to scare you into compliance or shame you into silence.

It’s the voice that says:

You’re still here.
You’re still worthy.
You’re not behind.
You’re becoming.

The voice in your head isn’t you.

But the one who just noticed it?
That’s the real you.

And you’re stronger than you think.