The Girl with the Big Voice

I saw a girl at the park today. She was running in big circles on the grass. Her arms were out like wings. She was shouting, but not because she was mad. It was a happy shout. A shout that said, “I’m here.”

It made me remember.

I used to be a girl like that.

My voice used to be big. It filled up the car on road trips. It filled up the kitchen when I told a story. I would make up songs about my dog. I would laugh so hard that I couldn't breathe. My laugh was a big, loud sound. I never thought about it. It just came out of me.

I didn't worry if people were looking.

I didn't try to be smaller.

I just took up my space.

I don't know when things changed. It wasn't one day. It was slow, like a color fading in the sun. Little by little, my voice got softer. My laugh got quieter. I started to hold my body in a different way. Tighter. Smaller.

The questions started in my head.

What will they think of me?

Is this a silly thing to say?

Am I being too much?

The questions got louder than my voice ever was.

Now, I am mostly quiet. I listen a lot. I watch the people who are loud and bright, and I wonder how they do it. Sometimes I have something to say. A joke or a story. But it stays inside. It feels safer in there.

I miss that other me.

The girl with the big voice.

She was more fun, I think. She was free.

I wonder where she went.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll whisper a little song.

Just to see if she remembers it.

Just to see if she's still in here.