Being Heard: Finding My Voice in a World Full of Noise
I keep having this dream. It’s the kind that sticks with you, lingering long after you wake up, like the smell of rain after a storm. I’m standing alone at the end of a pier, staring out at the ocean, which stretches endlessly in front of me. The storm is relentless—wind shrieking, waves crashing, rain pelting down like cold needles. It’s chaotic, loud and overwhelming. The ocean feels alive, angry almost, flexing its strength in merciless waves. I try to find the horizon, that comforting thin line where the ocean kisses the sky, but it’s impossible. My vision blurs as I squint against the rain, and I feel small, powerless, lost in this mess of sound and fury.
So, I do what anyone would do. I start yelling. I cry out to the ocean, to the wind, to something —anything. Maybe for help, maybe for acknowledgement. Maybe just to prove to myself that I exist in all this madness. But no matter how loud I yell, my voice gets whisked away by the storm, swallowed whole by the roaring waves and screaming wind. Even my own ears can’t hear me. I feel invisible, like my very existence is being unraveled by the chaos around me.
When I told my therapist about this dream, I laughed, half-joking that it’d make a killer piece of modern art. But the more I explained it, the more my own words caught me off guard. Somewhere between describing the endless pelting rain and the sound of my muted voice, a different question surfaced: “Why am I not being heard?”
That simple question stopped me in my tracks. It hit me that this dream wasn’t coming out of nowhere. It was expressing something I’ve wrestled with my entire life: the struggle to not just have a voice, but to make that voice matter. To be truly heard. To feel seen. And when I think about it, this idea—this yearning—has shaped me more than almost anything else.
As a kid, I was the smallest person in every room. Every classroom, every family gathering, every game of kickball. I lived in the shadows of bigger bodies and louder voices, ones that always seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room. My default response was silence. Yet, in smaller settings—family dinners, afternoons with close friends—I would blossom. I was thoughtful, funny, and imaginative, a kid who practically lived in a world of LEGO cities and big, colorful dreams. In those quiet, safe spaces, I felt vibrant and alive, because there I could be heard. And you know what? It felt amazing.
But life doesn’t stay small forever. It grows, and the noise grows with it. Adolescence brought me a stronger physical presence and a louder voice to match. I found myself jumping into debates at school, holding court during dinner with friends, sharing ideas with confidence and curiosity. It wasn’t about being the center of attention or always being right. It was about something deeper: the connection that comes from knowing someone is listening. It was in those moments I finally saw the connection between being heard and being confident, compassionate, and whole. My voice mattered. I mattered.
And then post-college life hit, with all the grace of a piano falling out of a fifth-story window. Suddenly, the familiar, structured rhythm of academics was replaced with a loud, chaotic mess called “the real world.” My first job smacked me right into the deep end: telemarketing. Yep, I sold insurance over the phone, the zenith of the dreaded "cold call" era. From the moment I walked in the door, I was stripped of my voice. Everything I said was scripted, dictated, approved by someone else. There was no room for me—only numbers, goals, and quotas. My ideas, my instincts, my thoughts? Not part of the equation.
It didn’t last long. One day, I decided to channel my frustration into absurdity, delivering a pitch in full-on Jerky Boys parody, voices and all. It was glorious. My coworkers found it hilarious. Management? Not so much. The following day, I was summoned into an office to listen to my performance, played back one cringe-filled second at a time. They fired me on the spot, of course. And as I walked out the door that day, I wasn’t even angry. Honestly? I was relieved. That job wasn’t for me. The culture, the values, the way my voice didn’t matter at all—it didn’t align with who I was or what I wanted to be. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was starting to understand the importance of alignment—how crucial it is to find spaces where my voice can breathe.
Over the years, I’ve dabbled in a little bit of everything: big corporations, small businesses, freelance gigs, creative projects. Some jobs were fine; others downright sucked. But in every role, one thing stood out: I was happiest, most driven, and most successful when I felt heard. Not just humored, not just acknowledged, but truly heard—when my ideas, contributions, and perspectives were valued. Conversely, when I wasn’t? The exhaustion, the frustration, the disconnection crept in.
So, what does it actually mean to be heard? For me, it’s about more than just having someone nod politely while you're talking. Being heard means having someone lean in—physically or emotionally—because they genuinely want to understand you. It’s about feeling seen, valued, and connected. It’s about the spaces we create where mutual respect, curiosity, and understanding allow every voice to matter.
My recurring dream, chaotic as it is, continues to visit me, reminding me of what I’ve learned and what I still strive for. I keep coming back to the thought that being heard isn’t a privilege—it’s a necessity. It shapes who we are, how we grow, and how we connect with the world. And much like the loyal, earnest, loving dog that never leaves your side, the idea of being heard is something I carry with me every day—a reminder to listen better, speak clearer, and always advocate for spaces where voices—all voices —can rise above the noise.
