On Owning Your Voice

Why Some Writers Struggle to Speak

I have a distinct memory from childhood.

I was walking through a store with my mom on an otherwise ordinary day when a woman stopped us and smiled.

“My,” she said to my mother, “she’s talkative.”

It wasn’t cruel. She probably meant it affectionately. But something about it instantly shut me down.

Afterward, my mom joked—with entirely good intentions—that if she ever wanted me to stop talking, she just had to take me out in public.

In school, I wasn’t a disruptive student, but I was always talking. Teachers moved my seat constantly, hoping distance would solve the problem.

It didn’t.

Because the truth was: I would talk to anyone.

Eventually, though, the people-pleaser in me learned what the world seemed to prefer from girls. Quietness. Composure. Self-containment.

So I learned to hold everything in.

The problem with having a constantly running internal monologue and no meaningful outlet for it is that eventually the thoughts begin to pile up. What might have become conversation turns inward instead. Worry. Overthinking. Stomach aches.

When things became particularly difficult, a kind nurse suggested I start writing.

I was nine years old.

That was my introduction to writing as emotional processing.

Writing gave my thoughts somewhere to go.

As I grew older, though, I noticed something strange: I could write my thoughts easily, but speaking them became harder and harder. If I had time to shape the words beforehand, I could express myself beautifully. But spontaneous speaking—especially speaking profoundly—felt difficult unless I had rehearsed it first.

Ironically, I eventually taught public speaking as a graduate assistant.

And that experience did help rebuild some of those muscles.

But I also realized I had started treating conversation like performance. I memorized interactions the same way I memorized speeches. Even professionally, working as a communication director for the Make-A-Wish Foundation of North Dakota, I often felt more comfortable delivering prepared remarks than simply speaking naturally.

Then motherhood changed language entirely.

Conversations with babies and small children around are fragmented. Half-finished thoughts. Interrupted sentences. Sleep deprivation so deep you lose the word you were reaching for midway through saying it.

And then the pandemic arrived.

My husband began working from home while I tried to keep five boys quiet enough for important meetings happening one room away. If you’ve ever attempted that, you already know: silence becomes both impossible and necessary at the same time.

By then, my inner monologue had become so loud I could barely hear anything happening around me.

That overwhelm eventually pushed me back toward writing again—consistently this time.

And lately, I keep returning to this thought: Maybe speaking clearly isn’t something some people are simply born knowing how to do.

Maybe expression itself is a skill.

The writers who speak eloquently have often been practicing out loud their entire lives. Some of us practiced internally instead. We learned to process privately. To rehearse silently. To refine before revealing.

But speaking, like writing, can be developed.

Owning your voice takes practice.

It takes patience.

It takes being willing to stumble through imperfect sentences long enough to trust your thoughts in real time.

It's part of the reason Prose & Cons became so personal to me.

In the novel, Hannah slowly realizes she didn’t just sign away her manuscript. She signed away her voice. The terrifying part isn’t simply that other people are speaking for her—it’s that she begins to lose the ability to tell which thoughts are truly hers in the first place.

And maybe that’s why I’m so excited about this next chapter of audiobook narration.

Not because I expect perfection.

But because I love the idea that even now, we can continue growing into fuller versions of ourselves.

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If you've ever struggled with owning your voice, I'd love to hear your story in the comments.