Whose voice is that?

Maybe you recognize this.

You want to make a choice. You actually feel quite clearly what you want, but somewhere another voice is speaking up.

Are you really sure?
You can’t just do that.
What will others think?
You have to be sensible.

But whose voice is that, really?
Is it your own wisdom?
Or are you still hearing the voice of your father or mother?

Our first connection begins even before we are born. We grow within the space of another human being, carried by her body, her energy, and her environment. Through the umbilical cord, we receive what we need to live.

And then that umbilical cord is cut.
But the connection doesn’t just disappear.
From that moment on, a lifelong process of holding on and letting go begins.

How do I stay connected to where I come from, without losing myself in it?

We carry so much from our roots. Stories from our parents and ancestors. Beliefs. Expectations. Roles we have come to fulfill. Ways in which we have learned to receive love and to belong.

And later, other voices are added. Those of a partner, for example.

I speak from my own experience.

For years, I’ve had a very strong man by my side. Someone who is there. Who supports me. Who protects. At many moments, that has been incredibly nice. It has carried me, helped me, and given me a sense of safety.

But precisely because that support was so strong, I also discovered another side.

Sometimes he was so supportive and protective that I didn’t have to feel what I actually knew. Not because he wanted to keep me small. On the contrary. But because it can be wonderful to have someone strong standing next to you. Someone who takes over. Who sees solutions. Who says: I’ll handle it. And sometimes you just let yourself be carried by that.

Until one day you notice:

Wait a minute… where did I go?
When do I trust my partner?
And when do I trust myself?
When is receiving support an act of love?
And when does support become so big that I forget to use my own strength?

I found that to be perhaps one of the most special discoveries.

That becoming yourself doesn’t mean you don’t need anyone anymore. It also doesn’t mean you have to be able to do everything alone. It’s perhaps precisely about being able to lean without losing yourself. That you can let yourself be carried and, at the same time, stand firmly on your own two feet. That you can listen to the wisdom of another without overwriting your own voice.

And so you come back to that umbilical cord dilemma. Staying connected without losing yourself.

That applies to your parents. To your family. To your partner. To your children. Because their voices, too, can become part of your inner world.

A remark from your mother.
A belief from your father.
The concern of your partner.
The opinion of your child.

And somewhere in between, you try to discover:

What is actually my voice?

Maybe you don’t have to reject anyone. You don’t have to let go of your parents to find yourself. You don’t have to make your partner less strong. You don’t have to find your children less important.

You just get to learn to listen again. To yourself. To that quiet knowing that might sound much softer than all the other voices.

And maybe that is the movement of growing up: not becoming less and less connected, but becoming more and more yourself within that connection.

Knowing when you can lean.
Knowing when you can let go.
Knowing when you can follow another.
And above all: knowing when it’s time to hear your own voice again.