I always knew I had a voice and I always knew I could carry a tune.
I also know that I developed stage fright at a very early age.
I probably didn’t live up to some unfulfilled promise that life had in store for me because my fear was greater than my desire to perform.
In an effort to shed my fear and to hit those notes that I instinctively craved, I started to write.
When I wrote, I was fearless.
I could speak volumes of truths and withstand judgement from afar rather than shine the spotlight on myself while eliciting a reaction from an audience.
I learned to sing with the tapping of a qwerty keyboard to help me write the many melodies that defined me and the world around me.
I finally hit all the write notes (that was intentional) when I gave my writing the right to go forward uncensored and raw.
The day I delivered an acoustic set of ideas and worried less about harmony and more about message, I finally heard myself, unplugged.
And it was at that moment that I knew I had my own song and my own unique voice and my own range and my own style.
I owned my sound.
I tendered my thoughts flawlessly, delivering pieces of myself to those who chose to listen to the tunes, spitting an alternative set of lyrics and an eclectic beat that adorned my persona.
As I’ve gotten older, I still have that singing voice and range, but it still stands out in the background. It is with my other voice, the one with timbre in my thoughts and life on the page that I deliver my concerts of prose.
It is with that voice that I belt out clarity and frustration. It is with that voice that I reach my audience and finally accept their disdain or their applause. It is with that voice that I color my story and embrace my artistry across all stages of life. It is with that voice that I have hit notes once deemed unattainable, once deemed unimaginable and most importantly…
It is with that voice that I have finally delivered the soundtrack of my life.