This isn’t my story. It’s the story of a woman I once worked with. But it could have been mine. Maybe it’s yours too.
If you see yourself in her words, you might finally understand why—despite everything you’ve learned—you still struggle to be seen.
Here’s what she told me one day:
I’m not sure when it happened exactly.
Maybe the moment I realized that no matter how much I knew, I just couldn’t do it.
I had read all the books.
Taken all the courses.
Spent years in therapy.
I could explain emotional wounds, the fear of visibility, the brain’s wiring.
I could’ve taught a workshop on it.
Intellectually—I had it all figured out.
One day, I decided to record a simple video for social media. Just me, sharing what I do.
I set everything up. I looked nice. I told myself: you’re ready.
I hit record… and froze.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.
My voice vanished.
I either yelled or stammered.
Then came the trembling.
What the hell was going on?
I knew what was happening. I understood it.
But that didn’t stop it.
My hands went cold.
I shut off the camera and cried.
How can I know so much and still be unable to act?
I felt ashamed.
Like a fraud.
Like a little girl playing dress-up, pretending to be a confident woman.
And then I remembered… fourth grade.
I had to read something in front of the class.
My heart pounded, my cheeks turned red, my mind went blank.
I read, but my voice shook.
I didn’t know if I was doing it right.
At the end, they laughed.
I cried, humiliated.
And that day, I made a silent promise: it’s safer to stay quiet.
All these years later, here I am… back in that moment.
But no one ever told me she, the little girl, would still be living inside me.
That she’d show up in my adult body.
That my mind might understand, but my body remembers.
That fear doesn’t go away through logic.
It has to be felt.
Met.
Honored.
And then, gently transformed.
Honestly? I almost signed up for another course.
But the turning point came when I stopped trying to fix myself.
And started going deeper.
Not into my thoughts.
Into my feelings. My reactions. My body.
That’s where I found her.
That’s where I found my voice.
One I can finally use, even if it still trembles.
If you’ve ever been in that place, where you know exactly what to do, but something still holds you back.
I see you. I’ve been there too.
And I want you to know this:
It can change.
You can heal.
You can find your voice.
Gently. Clearly. Without forcing anything.