The storm rolled over Lincoln faster than expected thick clouds, wind racing through the streets, rain pounding on windows like an urgent reminder of how quickly things can change. She arrived soaked, her hair clinging to her face, her jacket dripping onto my floor. But her eyes held a storm of their own.
She said, “Isaiah, I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m disappearing.” She had been leading a small Nebraska business with quiet excellence for years, but somewhere along the journey she stopped using her voice. She let louder personalities overshadow her. She let doubt become her decisionmaker. She let fear silence her brilliance.
As the storm raged outside, she told me about the moment that broke her. Someone she looked up to dismissed her in a meeting talked over her, minimized her, made her feel small. And instead of defending herself, she shrank.
I handed her a towel, sat down across from her, and said, “You didn’t lose your voice. You just stopped believing it mattered.”
Lightning cracked in the distance.
We unpacked her story piece by piece. Every fear. Every insecurity. Every moment she chose silence instead of strength. And slowly, she started speaking with more conviction like her voice was returning after a long absence.
By the time the storm began to calm, she said, “Isaiah… I think I’m ready to be heard again.” I nodded. “Good,” I said, “because Nebraska needs women like you.”
Sometimes storms don’t show up to shake you they show up to wake you.
If you’ve been silent too long, I’d be honored to help you find your voice again.
Button: Help Me Find My Voice
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