Hey everyone, I’ve never done something like this before, and it feels a bit like standing at the edge of a cliff. But here I am, ready to leap into the digital abyss and tell you something that’s been a weight on my soul for as long as I can remember.
Last week, I was at my parents’ house helping them clean out the attic. They’re downsizing—finally letting go of the house where I grew up. It’s a bittersweet process, sorting through decades of life in boxes and dusty corners. My mom asked me to take a look through some of my old stuff to see what I wanted to keep, and that’s when I stumbled upon it.
It was a small box, hardly remarkable, nestled between my stuffed animals and an old telescope I’d forgotten I owned. The kind of box you put keepsakes in because they mean something, but the thing is—I didn’t remember it. When I opened it, there was this old cassette tape. No label, just a worn plastic shell that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.
Curious, I found an old cassette player in another box and hit play. I didn’t expect much, maybe an old mixtape, but what I heard was my own voice—young, unsure, and something else… desperate. I must have been about eight or nine, and I was talking to someone, someone important. I talked about feeling different, about how I liked dolls and dresses, but how I knew I was supposed to like trucks and baseball.
Listening to myself, I felt like I was eavesdropping on a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear. But it was me—a part of me I had buried deep under layers of conformity and fear. I was confessing to a secret friend, probably imaginary, about how I wanted to be free to be myself, how I felt like I was trapped in someone else’s expectations.
That tape dredged up memories from the deepest recess of my mind. The day I recorded it, I remember my father yelling from the kitchen about how boys don’t cry, and my mother whispering to just wait for him to calm down. I remember running to my room, grabbing that tape recorder, and talking until I felt empty.
Hearing it now, from the vantage point of an adult who has spent years grappling with identity, self-expression, and the search for personal truth, it broke something open in me. It was like looking at an old photograph of myself in a mirror, a reflection I’d long ignored.
I realized I had spent so much of my life performing roles that were never meant for me, wearing masks that hid the vulnerability of who I truly am. I’ve always been afraid of disappointing those around me, terrified of not being enough. But here was this small voice, urging me to remember.
And it hit me. I need to be that person. I need to be true to that voice. Listening back, I knew I couldn’t continue living under the shadow of old fears and societal expectations. I am who I am, and it’s time to embrace that, unapologetically.
After processing this, I sat with my mom on the porch as the sun was setting. I told her everything. I talked about how I’ve hidden pieces of myself, how I felt so scared all these years. Her reaction? She cried, not out of sadness but out of relief. Relief that I’m finally stepping into the light after hiding in the shadows for so long.
She said she always knew there was more to me, and she hoped, more than anything, I would find my peace.
I’m sharing this here because I know there are others who feel trapped by their inner truths, hidden under years of silence. I want you to know it’s okay to listen to that small voice inside. It’s hard and it’s scary, but it’s the only way to truly live freely.
Thanks for reading this and for being a part of my journey, even if you didn’t know it before. I’m taking steps—small, shaky, exhilarating steps—toward the life I’ve always wanted. And I hope, if you need it, you will too.