Proof That My Voice Was Always There

Earlier today, my daughter shared something with me I thought I had lost forever.

A poem.

Not a recent one. Not something from my blog series. A poem I wrote probably more than 30 years ago.

I do not even remember exactly when I wrote it. I barely remembered that it had been published. What I do remember is that, at some point, the publisher mailed me a printed copy on cardstock. Somewhere over the years, life happened, boxes disappeared, and I assumed those words were gone forever.

But they were not.

My daughter found the poem years ago when she was a girl. She printed it, decorated it with hearts, and quietly placed it in her memory box.

Without either of us realizing it, she preserved a piece of me that I no longer knew existed.

When she shared it with me, I sat there staring at words written by a much younger version of myself. And what shook me most was not simply the poem itself. It was the realization that the woman I am today was already there in those words.

The pain.
The restraint.
The love.
The silence.
The longing to be understood.
The constant effort to protect others while quietly carrying my own emotions.

Over thirty years later, I am still writing about many of those same things.

This was the poem exactly as I wrote it:

“When you look at me, who do you see?
You think you know everything,
but can you really judge the depth of my sincerity?
In My Skin, there is pain.
A pain that stems from a life of refrain.
Holding back words for years in order to protect others fears.
No one cares to see my tears
because they don’t live In My Skin.
In My Skin, there is great love.
A love that allows the pain to dissipate!
A love granted to me by God in order for me to thrive!
Because although In My Skin there may be pain, I am deeply blessed to be alive!”

As I reread those words, I realized something I was not expecting:

The voice I thought I had lost was already speaking.

Long before leadership titles.
Long before social services and advocacy work.

Before all of that, there was simply a young woman trying to put truth into words.

And somehow, even then, I already understood what it felt like to carry emotions quietly while still showing up for others.

Over the years, I have spent so much of my life helping people and communities navigate difficult systems. I have advocated for families needing food assistance, healthcare, and dignity. I have worked to help organizations better serve people who are often overlooked or misunderstood. I have led teams, trained staff, spoken in rooms where hard conversations needed to happen, and tried to create spaces where people felt seen.

But if I am honest, there were also seasons where I became exceptionally skilled at showing up for everyone except myself.

That poem reminded me that I have been carrying certain feelings for a very long time. Feelings around being misunderstood. Feelings around silence. Feelings around protecting others while minimizing my own pain. Feelings around moving forward even when emotionally exhausted.

And yet, even in that younger version of me, there was still hope.

That may be the part that moved me most.

The poem did not end in bitterness.
It ended in gratitude.
It ended in love.
It ended in survival.

“I am deeply blessed to be alive.”

Reading those words now feels different than it would have years ago. Today, I understand how much strength it takes to remain soft, compassionate, and loving after carrying pain for a long time.

I also understand something else now:

The voice I almost lost never fully disappeared.

She was there in old poems.
She was there in quiet moments.
She was there in the way I fought for communities.
She was there in the way I protected people.
She was there every time I chose compassion instead of bitterness.

And perhaps the most beautiful part of all of this is knowing that my daughter unknowingly preserved proof of that truth.

Not just a poem.

Proof that my voice was always there.