The Night I Found My Voice Again

Some nights, the Glass House glows brighter than usual.

Not because of lanterns or moonlight,
but because something inside me finally flickers back to life.

The night I found my voice again wasn’t dramatic.
It didn’t come with storms or shouting or the breaking of chains.

It came quietly —
soft as a breath,
gentle as a memory.

I had spent so long listening to the wrong voice.
The one that convinced me I was too sensitive.
Too emotional.
Too much.
Or not enough.
The one that made me shrink inside my own skin until my voice became a ghost.

I didn’t even notice when I stopped speaking.
Not out loud — I still spoke.
But I stopped speaking as me.

Then, one night, standing by the window of the Glass House, watching rain pattern the glass, I felt something shift.

It started like warmth beneath my ribs.
Then a tightening in my throat.
Then a whisper — not external, but buried inside the part of me I thought had died:

“You’re still here.”

I froze.

Because I hadn’t heard my own voice — the real one — in so long.

Not the voice shaped by fear.
Not the voice muted by someone else’s control.
Not the voice that begged to be loved by someone incapable of giving it.

No — this was mine.

And when I heard it, I cried.

Not from sadness…
but from recognition.

Because in that moment I understood something:

I hadn’t been destroyed.
I’d been silenced.
And silence can be undone.

I whispered back — softly, shakily, but truly:

“I am still in here. I am worthy. I am becoming.”

And the Glass House glowed — as if it knew.

This is for anyone whose voice has been drowned out, manipulated, dimmed, or stolen.

You haven’t lost who you are.
You haven’t lost your fire.
You haven’t lost your voice.

It’s waiting for the night you finally feel safe enough to hear it again.

And when that night comes…
your whole world will start glowing too.