There’s a voice inside all of us.

She shows up when we’re tired. When we’re questioning. When we’re trying to change.

For years, I let her run the show. That inner critic who echoed other people’s doubts. The one who made me second-guess my worth, dim my light, shrink my truth. I mistook her for me.

But on this journey inward—this homecoming—I learned something radical:

That voice is not who I am. And she’s not who you are either.

She is a mosaic of moments. A shapeshifter of survival. She is pain, not presence. Noise, not knowing.

But when we meet her with curiosity instead of shame, we begin to take our power back.

This poem spilled out of me after a deep conversation—one of those soul-level talks that stirs something awake. It’s slam poetry. It’s truth. It’s healing. It’s the voice I used to fear, and the one I now greet with love.

So here she is, raw and real.

She’s Not Me

Written for a slam poetry vibe

By Casandra

There’s a voice in my head

who lives rent-free—

got a lot to say

but she’s not me.

She whispers doubt like it’s gospel truth,

spits worry like fire in a soundproof booth.

She’s loud at night,

but quiet in light,

a shadow that feeds

when I lose the fight.

But have you ever asked—

what does she look like?

If you gave her a name,

a frame, a height?

Maybe 5’2”, bitter boots and spite,

rockin’ yesterday’s pain in a dress too tight.

Maybe her hair is straight to her chin 

a pain of the of the past,

caked in the shame that never did last.

Maybe her makeup’s cracked with fear,

lined with the echoes I used to hear.

She’s stitched together

with every voice that said “you can’t,”

a chorus of no’s in a secondhand chant.

She’s not original.

She’s a mixtape of projections,

people’s regrets in my own reflection.

But when you ask yourself—

the one you described,

the voice you named,

the face you framed—

did she look like you?

Or did she wear the shame

that others gave to you?

She looks like everything

that ever doubted your rise,

stitched from the stares,

the silence, the lies.

She’s every broken thing I tried to ignore,

the ache I buried, the locked-up drawer.

I used to hush her—mute her cries,

drown her out with strength and lies.

But the more I silenced, the more she screamed,

until I learned… she just wants to be seen.

And here’s what they never told me:

That voice? She’s not the enemy.

She’s hurt.

She’s scared.

She’s insecure.

She’s every broken thing I tried to endure.

So I stopped trying to shut her down.

No more battles.

No more frowns.

I met her—face to face—in my mind’s eye,

and said, “It’s okay. You don’t have to lie.”

And we stood—

me and the voice in my head—

two versions of me,

no words left unsaid.

I didn’t scream, didn’t slam the door,

I said, “I see you.

But you can’t live here, 

You’re not in control anymore.”

We hugged.

We cried.

She softened inside.

And just like that—

we didn’t have to hide.

So if you ever hear her whisper again,

just pause… and remember, my friend:

That voice is not you—

but you hold the power to love her too.

Because healing’s not muting the noise.

It’s choosing love

when doubt destroys.

It’s seeing the dark

and bringing the light.

It’s holding your fear

and saying, “We’ll be alright.”

You have the power to change your mind,

to change your world,

to realign.

So let that voice speak,

but answer with truth.

Because love lives in you—

and she is the proof.

✨Reflection: A Home Within the Noise

When I first began healing, I thought peace meant silence. That I’d “arrive” when the voices of fear, self-doubt, and past pain stopped showing up.

But that’s not how it works.

True peace—the kind that builds a home within—comes from listening to the voice without letting it define you. It’s the sacred act of sitting with your inner shadows, letting them speak, and then lovingly saying:

“You’re safe, but you’re not in charge anymore.”

This poem became a turning point. I stopped exiling my pain. I met her in the mirror. I traced the echoes of old wounds and honored the girl who carried them for so long.

And in that meeting, something softened. She didn’t disappear.

But she didn’t scream so loud anymore.

That’s the power of compassion. It doesn’t erase our pain.

It transforms our relationship with it.

You are allowed to outgrow the voice that once kept you small.

You are allowed to love the broken parts without letting them lead.

You are allowed to change your mind about who you are.

Because you are not the voice.

You are the one who answers.

Closing Soul Note

🙌Quote of the Week:

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.”

— Carl Jung

☀️Journal Reflection Prompt:

What does the voice inside your head sound like?

What would you say to her if you met her face-to-face?

Is it time to shift from silencing to understanding?

😌Grounding Tool:

Next time your inner critic speaks up, pause. Breathe.

Write her a letter—not to banish her, but to understand her.

Name her fears. Thank her for trying to protect you.

Then remind her:

I’ve got this now.

You are not broken. You are becoming.

And the you that’s rising?

She’s not afraid of shadows—

She shines anyway.

Always,

Casandra