I signed up for the Elephant Academy Find Your Voice writing class. 2 months of writing guidance, encouragement, and occasional colorful rants from Waylon Lewis. I’m not sure why I signed up. Recent weeks (months? I’m not sure) have found me wallowing in self-pity and despair. Certainly, this isn’t the most ideal time for me to focus on my writing. Or maybe it is.

It’s interesting that the course is called Find Your Voice. Last week, in an effort to beat back the depression and anxiety, I went to a therapist who does energy work, and she cleared my chakras. I don’t know if I believe all that, not really. But she does, and she said she found the most congestion at my throat chakra. She asked if someone silenced my voice in childhood. I am very, very slow to point blame at anyone else for the condition I find myself in, so I didn’t really know how to answer.  I said that maybe I just silenced myself. Improbable, now that I think about it. I suppose there’s more there that I’ll need to sort through in therapy.

Regardless of how I lost my voice, my biggest fear now is that I’ll find my voice, only to discover that I have nothing of value to say. Maybe my gift is simply helping other people craft their words, strengthen their voices. I’m ok with being in a supporting role; I’m most comfortable there, actually. What do I have to share that would be of benefit to my fellow humans? I don’t know that I have any amazing skills that would benefit the world at large.

I am, for example, uniquely qualified to be a farm wife to a particular man, who is, unfortunately, dead. What can I do with those skills now?  Does anyone care that I know how to grow and put up a garden? That I know how to raise free-range chickens? That I know how, where, and most importantly when to gather wild watercress?

I don’t live on a farm anymore. Now I live in the city, with a townhouse of my own, and a HOA that would never let me raise chickens in my backyard. Living on my own, I am learning new skills. Last week I changed the elements and thermostats in my hot water heater. I’m pretty proud of that, but youtube already has plenty of tutorial videos about how to do that (thankfully!)

My son is grown, which is a success, but all I have for parenting tips are examples of the terrible mistakes I made along the way.

I’m pushing 50, and realizing that I invested too heavily in the identities that seemed like they would last the rest of my life. The truth is, your identity can be stolen from you in a moment. If you are a wife or husband, you won’t be without your spouse. If you are a writer, a brain injury could steal that from you. Whatever you hang your identity hat on, it’s probably not as permanent as you have assumed. Life upheavals, tragic accidents, and sometimes just the ending of a chapter can rewrite (erase?) who you thought you were in the blink of an eye.

I would like my writing to be uplifting, and encouraging, but the truth is, that’s just not where I am right now. So then, what do I have to share with the world, that anyone might care to read?

I guess the one thing I have that may be of value, I don’t fully possess yet. But if I come through this season of change and transition and heartache and healing, IF I make it to the other side, well, that would be something worth sharing. That would be a story that I myself would like to read. If, having lost all my identities, I can forge a new one with the broken pieces of my previous life, if I can repair not just hot water heaters, but my own soul, that might be very encouraging to someone who finds themselves where I am now. So maybe I can use my voice to help encourage others who have gotten bruised and traumatized along the way. The ones wailing in despair in the middle of their shattered lives, knowing that it will never go back together the way it once was. Maybe I can learn to upcycle the pieces of my life into something new, and maybe I can help others learn to do the same. That seems a worthy job for my voice, if I can find it.