There is a difference between denying my voice and choosing how I use it.
“Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy? Forgive yourself and stop punishing yourself.”
—Louise Hay
Several months ago, I entered into what I thought was a discussion about essential oils. In case you don’t already know, this is one of my favorite topics.
Sadly, I was mistaken.
The question was: Can essential oils be ingested?
Oh my, one of my favorite questions about one of my favorite topics!
“Yes!” I said quickly and enthusiastically. “Some essential oils may have even been approved by the FDA.”
Then I began to explain—plants were humans’ first medicine, and some essential oils, when properly produced and intended for that use, can be ingested.
I was going to elaborate on what I meant when this woman rather rudely cut me off. She essentially called me a liar for claiming that essential oils had ever been approved by the FDA and insisted that they could never safely be ingested.
“Perhaps I misspoke…” I started.
But there was no room for perhaps. Or for anything else I might have said.
Her face was red, her voice raised, and what I had thought was a discussion had become a rant about essential oils, multi-level marketing, and what sounded like a very painful experience of her own.
There was no conversation anymore.
So I stopped talking.
At the time, I told myself there was no point in continuing. And there wasn’t. I sat back and used my breath and meditation practice to steady the anxiety rising inside me.
But later, alone with my trusted pen and journal, I began to wonder.
Why had I really stopped?
Was I choosing peace?
Or had I simply done what I had done so many times before and shrunk?
For much of my life, when someone strongly disagreed with me, corrected me, or dismissed what I was saying, something inside me became very small.
What if I’m wrong?
Who am I to speak?
Maybe I should just be quiet.
Perhaps it began with some version of that old message many of us heard growing up: Children are to be seen and not heard.
Except somewhere along the way, I seem to have dropped the seen part too.
The story became:
My voice, my opinions, my thoughts do not matter because no one actually sees me.
Journaling is my safe place—it lets me be direct and honest with myself.
I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and then, pen to paper, asked, “What was really going on here?”
And there it was, that deeper layer.
I hadn’t merely wanted to explain my point of view.
I wanted that woman to acknowledge it.
I wanted her to stop talking long enough to hear me. I wanted her to say, “Yes, Lee. I understand what you’re saying.”
Maybe I even wanted her to say, “You’re right.”
That’s a horse of a different color.
Why did I feel that I needed that?
And perhaps the more important question is:
What difference would it really have made?
Suppose she had stopped talking. Suppose she had listened carefully to everything I wanted to say and then announced, “You know what, Lee? You’re right.”
Would I have been happy?
Probably.
For a minute.
I might have walked away feeling vindicated. Seen. Heard. Maybe even a little triumphant.
But then what?
Sooner or later someone else would disagree with me. Someone else wouldn’t understand me. Someone else wouldn’t listen.
And once again I would be waiting for someone outside myself to give me permission to feel okay.
Perhaps that is what Louise Hay’s question has come to mean for me.
Do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy?
Not because being right is wrong.
Not because I shouldn’t speak up.
And certainly not because I should smile sweetly while someone talks over me.
It means my happiness does not depend upon someone else’s willingness to see me, hear me, understand me, or agree with me.
That doesn’t mean I won’t get angry.
I do.
It doesn’t mean I won’t feel frustrated when someone refuses to listen.
I will.
And it doesn’t mean that being dismissed doesn’t hurt.
Sometimes it does.
But here’s what I am beginning to understand:
I can feel angry and be at peace.
I can feel frustrated and be at peace.
I can feel unheard and still hear myself.
Maybe that’s the new story.
My voice matters because I say it matters.
I can speak when I have something to say. I can listen when another person speaks. I can change my mind when I discover I was mistaken. I can stand my ground when I believe I am not.
And I can walk away when there is no longer a conversation to be had.
Not because I am shrinking.
Not because I am afraid.
Because I choose how I use my voice.
Perhaps that is one of the gifts of the Throat Chakra: not simply finding our voice, but discovering that the voice belongs to us.
We decide when to speak.
We decide when to listen.
And sometimes we decide that we don’t need the last word.
There is a difference between denying my voice and choosing how I use it.
I think I’m finally beginning to know the difference.