The Day I Realized I Was Waiting for Permission to Speak My Truth

For years—decades in fact—I thought (or hoped) my silence meant I was safe.

I told myself I wouldn’t be noticed… which meant not being criticized.
Or that I was waiting for the right moment when someone would actually listen.
Or that I didn’t have anything important to say.

It didn’t help that I had a minor speech impediment that my father constantly tried to “fix.” Or that some unremembered trauma in early childhood left me nearly mute for many years. Or that I was the oldest of ten kids, which meant that getting a word in edgewise was like fighting to be heard over a hurricane.

Heck, my mother (queen of cliches) often told us, “Children are to be seen and not heard!”

Words didn’t feel like my friends!

I didn’t even want to be seen, because that meant being criticized, so I created my own invisibility cloak where I could hide from annoying parents, judgmental teachers, and playground bullies.

It worked pretty well, but it also cut me off from supportive connections I might have found.

Then one day, years after I had moved away from the influence of my parents, it finally clicked:

I wasn’t really waiting for clarity or the right moment.
I was waiting for permission to speak my truth.

• Permission for my words to be perfectly received.
• Permission to know—without a doubt—that no one would misunderstand or criticize me.
• Permission to be sure my honesty wouldn’t create discomfort, distance, or disappointment.

And in that moment, I saw it clearly:
No one was ever coming to give me that permission.
I had given away my power!

Maybe you can relate, even if your challenges with words were not so extreme. Everyone, I think, must have swallowed their truth at some time.

The Very Polite Way We Silence Ourselves

This kind of silence is socially acceptable. Even rewarded.

It might look like thoughtfulness.
Or sound like discernment.
It often wears spiritual language like a soft shawl.

“I don’t want to create waves.”
“It’s probably not worth saying.”
“I’ll let other people have time to speak.”

But underneath all of that restraint is usually a quiet fear:

What if I speak… and I’m not accepted?

So we soften what we know.
We translate our truth into something more palatable.
We hold back words that carry heat, life, and direction.

And the body keeps score.

• A tight throat—or frequent sore throat.
• A low hum of irritation.
• A fatigue that doesn’t quite make sense.

Because truth, like magic, doesn’t enjoy being stored indefinitely.

The Moment It Became Obvious

After years of wrestling with this issue, I finally asked myself a different question:

What am I actually trying to prevent here?

The answer was immediate—and slightly embarrassing.
I was trying to prevent discomfort… mostly my own, but also everyone else’s.

Not harm.
Not danger.
Just discomfort.

And in doing so, I was quietly abandoning my own alignment.

That was the moment I realized something important: Every time I waited for permission to speak, I was handing my authority to others.

Truth be told, I still wait for the invitation to speak sometimes, even decades after I had that realization. I guess it’s not surprising, since I’m a Human Design Projector type and our flow depends on invitations, rather than pushing to make things happen. (Can’t say I like it, but it seems to be the way I’m wired.)

So I’ll probably always be waiting for invitations. However! Yes, however… I’ve discovered ways to invite myself, like leading workshops and teaching classes where anyone who signs up is automatically inviting me to share my truth.

In other words: I can do the inviting!

What the Old Stories Have Been Telling Us

In the old myths, truth-tellers were rarely convenient.

• Seers unsettled kings.
• Poets disrupted the order of things.
• Wise women were often described as “difficult.”

Truth has always carried an edge—not because it wants to wound, but because it wants to move energy.

Not loudly.
Not aggressively.
But honestly—like the faeries.

In fact, in the tale of Thomas the Rhymer, when he returned from the faery realm he could ONLY speak truth.

A Reframe That Changed Everything

Here’s the thought that helped me stop waiting:

What if speaking my truth isn’t about being received well—but about being aligned with who I really am?

Alignment doesn’t promise approval.
It promises integrity.

And integrity does something quietly miraculous:
it returns your energy to you.

That bears repeating: Integrity does something quietly miraculous: it returns your energy to you.

When you speak what’s true (even imperfectly), something relaxes inside.
You stop leaking energy through self-editing.
You feel more here.

Truth doesn’t need to be dramatic.
It doesn’t need a manifesto.

It just needs to be yours.

A Gentle Practice (No Big Confrontations Required)

You don’t need to say everything to everyone.
Start with one small place where honesty feels slightly overdue.

Ask yourself:

“Where am I being quieter than I need to be?”

Then try one simple experiment:

• Say what you actually want instead of what’s convenient
• Name a boundary without cushioning it excessively
• Share an idea before it’s fully polished
• Let a sentence stand without apologizing for it

No speeches.
No dramatic reveals.
Just a clean, honest sentence.

Notice how your body responds.

It may feel like fear, but what if it’s really excitement? The excitement of truth flowing freely at last!

Why This Matters Right Now

Many people are feeling pressure in their throats lately.

• There’s so much intuitive knowing.
• So much lived wisdom.
• So many truths being filtered down to something safer (or into outright lies).

But the world doesn’t need more well-behaved silence.
It needs authentic truth spoken by people willing to trust themselves.

This is one reason I value safe spaces like my workshops where we practice speaking our truth. Where words don’t have to be perfect to be welcome.

Truth strengthens with use.

One Last Permission Slip

Just in case you’ve been waiting for a permission slip from me…

• You’re allowed to speak before you know how it will land.
• You’re allowed to be clear without being harsh.
• You’re allowed to let truth be simple.

The voice you’re waiting for?
It is already yours.