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“Turn down the volume of your negative inner voice and create a nurturing inner voice to take its place.” ~Beverly Engel

After the abuse ends, people think the pain ends too. But what no one tells you is that sometimes the loudest voice isn’t the abuser’s anymore—it’s the one that settles inside you.

It whispers:

“You’re broken.”

“You’re used.”

“You don’t deserve better.”

And over time, that voice doesn’t just whisper. It becomes the rhythm of your thoughts, the lens through which you see yourself.

That’s what I mean when I say the trauma keeps talking.

Living with the Echo

In the months after my assault, I didn’t have words for what I was feeling. I just knew that every choice I made seemed to come from a place of damage.

I found myself in situations that felt eerily familiar—letting people use me, letting hands roam without question. I wasn’t saying “yes” because I wanted to; I was saying it because a voice inside had already decided I wasn’t worth more.

And to anyone watching from the outside, it might have looked like I was reckless. But inside, I was just tired. Tired of fighting a voice that seemed louder than mine.

Why We Stay Stuck

Trauma has this way of rewriting the script in our heads.

It convinces us that we’re not the same person anymore, that we’re tainted beyond repair. And because we believe that, we keep choosing situations that prove the voice right.

It’s not that we want to keep hurting ourselves. It’s that the part of us that knows we deserve better gets buried under layers of pain and self-blame.

I remember once thinking, “What’s the point of saying no?” I felt like I’d already lost the right to draw boundaries.

Looking back now, I realize that wasn’t me speaking. That was trauma—still in control.

The Turning Point

For me, things didn’t change overnight. There wasn’t a single moment when I woke up healed. But there was a moment when I got tired of losing to that voice.

I remember looking in the mirror and realizing, “If I keep going like this, the abuse wins forever—even without him here.”

That realization didn’t silence the trauma, but it gave me a reason to fight back.

I started doing small, almost invisible things to reclaim myself:

Saying “no” even when my voice shook.

Choosing one safe person to tell the truth to.

Permitting myself to stop—to pause—before walking into another cycle that would hurt me.

Each of those choices felt impossibly hard at the time. But with every pause, with every “no,” the voice of trauma got quieter.

Healing Is a Process, Not a Snap

I used to think healing meant waking up one day and feeling nothing.

Now I know healing means learning to talk louder than the trauma.

It means choosing—again and again—to believe a different story about yourself.

If this is where you are—if the trauma is still talking and you feel powerless to shut it up—I need you to know something:

You can stop. You can pause. You can turn around.

Not for anyone else—for you. For your peace. Your sanity. Your healing.

What I Want You to Remember

I won’t insult you by saying, “Just snap out of it.” That’s not how this works.

But I will tell you that one pause, one moment of reclaiming yourself, can change everything.

It’s not easy, I know. But it’s possible. And it’s worth it.

You deserve better than pain on repeat. You deserve to be more than what was done to you.

If you’re reading this and the trauma is still talking, please hear this from someone who’s been there:

The voice isn’t you. You’re still here. And you’re allowed to fight for a story where the abuse doesn’t win.

I may not have all the answers, but I know the terrain of this road—the stops, the setbacks, the slow turning around. And I want to walk it with you, one better choice at a time.

Because healing isn’t out of reach. You just have to start talking louder than the trauma.

About Ibukun Oluwaseun Adesina

Ibukun Oluwaseun Adesina is a trauma-informed social worker, coach, and soul-writer who believes that healing can take many forms—from professional guidance to personal reflection and storytelling. Through her movement, Virginia Heals and its youth initiative, SafeNest Teens, she helps others find safety, courage, and self-worth after pain. She’s also the author of How to Heal When You Can’t Talk About It, a guide for silent survivors learning to find their voices again. Connect with her on Facebook or email virginiaheals@gmail.com.

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“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” ~Anaïs Nin

What is it about us that makes us wait for permission? To do what we want. To be who we are. We wait until we’ve “earned” it, until we’re thinner, smarter, more talented. Until we’re finally good enough.

Everyone has dreams, right? Some want to travel. Some want to write a book. Others dream of running a marathon. Or something smaller: a bold haircut. Or something bigger: quitting a job that drains you.

And still, we wait.

We wait for someone to say, “You’d look amazing with short hair.” Or for someone to nod at our resignation plans and say, “Yes, you should go for it.” That’s when we feel allowed. That’s when we move.

I know that waiting. I’ve lived it.

Finding My Voice

As a kid, I sang constantly. But no one praised it. My family was mostly annoyed. So I stopped. I only sang when I was alone. Later, in a shared student flat, I stopped altogether, afraid of bothering others again. It never occurred to me that I could choose it for myself.

Only last year, at twenty-eight, did I realize that I still loved singing. Deeply. I didn’t need a record deal or an audience. I just needed to sing. So I signed up for lessons.

And something shifted.

The envy I used to feel toward other singers disappeared. I no longer needed to watch from the outside, admiring those who gave themselves permission to take up space. I was finally doing the thing I had always wanted to do.

The Power of Permission

That small, seemingly impractical thing changed how I saw everything. Because it wasn’t about singing, really. It was about permission. It was about allowing myself to follow what lit me up, even if no one else understood it, even if it didn’t look productive or impressive.

The more I sang, the more I felt connected to myself. Singing wasn’t just a hobby. It became a practice of self-connection. A form of expression that didn’t require explanation. A way to feel my emotions directly. A space where I didn’t have to be “good,” just real.

I kept thinking: Why did I wait so long? Why did I assume I needed someone else’s approval to do something that made me feel so alive?

And that made me wonder: What else are we not doing because we don’t think we’re allowed to? What are we hungry for—not in our stomachs, but in our souls?

From Productivity to Presence

The world is full of beauty. There’s so much to explore, to feel, to create. Colors to wear, places to visit, ideas to follow. And yet, so often, we’re taught to value productivity over presence. We’re encouraged to measure our worth by how much we do, not how deeply we live. Even joy is shaped by consumption—buying more, doing more—rather than simply being with ourselves.

As an empathic child, I learned to listen closely. I became good at being helpful, at making others feel better. I was insecure and eager to be liked, especially by the louder kids, the ones who seemed confident and sure of themselves. I felt like a shadow, orbiting them like a small planet around a bright sun.

Without realizing it, I gave others a lot of power. Their approval made me feel like I belonged. But I wasn’t truly seen, because I only said what I thought I was supposed to say. I adjusted, adapted, and slowly drifted away from myself.

Now, as I reconnect with who I really am, I notice how strong and steady my voice feels. It’s warm and grounded. And the more rooted I am in myself, the more I want to reach out to others—not to prove anything, but to share something honest. From a place that feels real.

Becoming My Own Sun

Singing, writing, exploring my inner world—these practices make me glow. As strange as it sounds, they help me see who I am. They help me ask: Who am I circling? Who am I waiting for?

Or maybe, just maybe, I’m no longer circling anyone. Maybe I’ve become my own sun.

A few years ago, I didn’t know I could feel this steady, this full. That it could all be sparked by something as ancient and simple as using my voice is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Why It Matters

For a while, I wondered, why is it so important that I feel good? Why does it matter that I sing, that I write, that I want to be heard? Isn’t that selfish? Isn’t it enough to live quietly and be kind?

I struggled with that. But I’ve come to believe this: when we’re connected to ourselves—truly, deeply—we show up differently. More honestly. More gently. More powerfully. Not just for ourselves, but for others. Using your voice, in whatever form it takes, isn’t just about being seen. It’s about being aligned. And from that place, it’s easier to love, to give, to create something real.

I’ve also noticed how much I admire expressive people. I love watching them, listening to them, the ones who dare to use their voices and share their insights. Through them, I see myself more clearly. I understand life better. Not just through psychology or theory or polished words, but through colors, soft fabrics, melodies, laughter, and tears.

I never imagined I could be one of those people. Someone who creates something raw and real from lived experience. Someone who turns ache and wonder into something that touches others.

I didn’t think I was talented enough. I didn’t think anyone would care. I didn’t think I had permission. But now I know: I have to try. Because when I don’t, I feel numb. A little lost. It’s like the light dims—not completely, but just enough that I start to question who I am and what I’m meant to do in this world.

An Invitation

I’m deeply grateful if my work resonates with anyone. But more than anything, I hope it encourages others to tune into themselves too—to share what’s on their minds, vulnerably and tenderly, as artists, as friends, as strangers, as humans.

Because I believe this now: when we find and express our true voice, we open the door to real connection. That’s what I’m hungry for. Not just to shine, but to sit beside you in the light and in the dark.

So let me ask you:

What are you hungry for, not in your stomach, but in your spirit? What’s calling to you quietly, again and again?

When I talk to friends or clients, I often notice that many can’t answer this question right away. When our wishes, desires, and creative longings have been ignored or even shamed for years, they tend to go quiet.

But that doesn’t mean they’re gone.

Ways to Reconnect with What You’re Hungry For

Here are a few gentle ways to rediscover what you might be craving, deep down:

Look back at your childhood.

What did you love to do, naturally and freely? What made you lose track of time?

Notice what you do when you’re procrastinating.

What are you actually drawn toward? I used to hum and sing unconsciously while avoiding tasks. Now I see that as my creative energy trying to reach me. What’s tugging at your sleeve?

Pay attention to envy.

Who do you envy, and why? Envy can be a compass, pointing you toward a part of yourself that’s longing to be seen or expressed.

Try something unexpected.

Take a class you never thought you’d sign up for. Explore a new hobby that feels exciting or strange or slightly scary.

Follow what feels warm, light, alive.

It doesn’t have to be big. A color that makes you smile. A conversation that lights you up. A song you keep playing on repeat. That spark matters.

You don’t need permission to begin.

You just need curiosity. And the courage to listen to the quiet, persistent part of you that’s been whispering all along.

About Maria Kleine

Maria Kleine is a psychologist (M.Sc.) specializing in self-development, emotional awareness, and creativity. On her blogmariakleine.com, she combines academic knowledge with personal insight to explore themes like authenticity, inner growth, and meaningful living. Her work encourages reflection, self-trust, and a deeper connection to one’s voice and values.

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