***Part 2 of The Voice Within took me a little longer to get here than I planned. I originally said we’d continue this conversation a few weeks ago, but sometimes life has other plans. So, a little later than promised, let’s pick up where we left off.***
In Part 1 of The Voice Within, I wrote about learning to recognize those quiet signals that tell us something deserves our attention.
Does this make sense?
Am I missing something?
Should I say something?
But recognizing the voice is only the beginning. The obvious next question is: If we hear it, why don’t we always listen?
I think the answer, more often than we realize, is fear.
Not necessarily the kind of fear we immediately recognize as fear. It often shows up disguised as perfectly reasonable hesitation:
Maybe this isn’t the right time.
I don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is.
Maybe I’m wrong.
I don’t want to come across as difficult.
Someone else will say something.
I’ll address it later.
I’ve thought a lot about what happens in that space between I think I should say something and actually saying it. For me, the hesitation usually comes from a few places: fear of being wrong, fear of how I will be perceived, fear of challenging authority, or fear of disrupting a relationship.
And sometimes several of them show up at once.
When Fear Looks Like Professional Caution
Recently, I was asked to do something that seemed to extend beyond my role in a larger process. The request itself wasn’t unreasonable, but something about it made me pause. I wasn’t sure whether the person making the request understood the boundaries of my role, was simply asking for my help, or saw the responsibility differently than I did.
My voice within was telling me to clarify it.
Then came the other thoughts.
Do I really need to push back on this?
Will I sound difficult?
Am I overthinking it?
How will this be perceived coming from me?
Ultimately, I raised the concern. But what interests me now isn’t simply that I spoke up. It’s what happened inside me before I did.
I’ve learned that discomfort isn’t always a stop sign. Sometimes it’s a yellow light. A yellow light tells us to pause. Consider the timing. Think about our tone. Assess the relationship, the circumstances, and the potential consequences.
But it doesn’t necessarily mean stop.
I think we sometimes experience the discomfort of speaking up and interpret it as evidence that we shouldn’t. In reality, discomfort may simply be reminding us that what we’re about to do requires care.
The Fears Behind Our Silence
Fear can silence us in different ways.
Sometimes we’re afraid of being wrong. We convince ourselves that we need to be completely certain before we’re entitled to raise a question or offer another perspective.
I’ve had to let that go.
I regularly say things like, “I could be wrong, but I want to flag something,” or “I may be missing a piece, so help me understand…”
Being willing to speak doesn’t require believing I’m always right. In fact, some of the most productive conversations begin with curiosity rather than certainty.
Sometimes we’re afraid of authority. The question we would easily ask a peer suddenly feels different when we’re sitting across from someone with a bigger title.
I still feel that pause.
What has changed is that I no longer automatically treat the feeling as a reason to stay quiet. I try to trust my ability to read the situation, communicate respectfully, and recognize when something deserves to be raised.
And sometimes we’re afraid of what speaking will cost us relationally.
Will they think I’m difficult?
Will they still like me?
Will this change how they see me?
Will I become that person?
People-pleasing can make silence feel like kindness. But I’ve learned that making someone comfortable and respecting them are not the same thing.
I can respect you and disagree with you. I can value our relationship and tell you something hurt me. I can respect your authority and still ask a question. And I can care about how my words affect you without making your approval the price of using my voice.
That kind of confidence doesn’t magically appear when we walk into the workplace. It comes from the personal work we do to understand ourselves—our fears, our need for approval, our past experiences, and the things that trigger us to shrink.
When Yesterday’s Experience Silences Today’s Voice
Sometimes our hesitation has history behind it.
Maybe you spoke up before and were dismissed. Maybe someone embarrassed you. Maybe you were labeled difficult. Maybe you expressed a concern and nobody listened.
Those experiences stay with us. But this is where reflection matters. A bad experience can teach us without becoming a permanent rule.
I can ask myself: What actually happened? Was my timing off? Could my delivery have been better? Was I dealing with someone who simply wasn’t receptive? Is there something I would do differently next time?
Reflection allows me to learn from an experience without turning that didn’t go well into I should never speak up again.
Otherwise, fear can take one painful experience and turn it into a lifetime policy.
Choosing Silence Is Different From Being Silenced
None of this means we should say everything that crosses our minds. There are times when silence is absolutely the right choice. We can recognize something, weigh the circumstances, and intentionally decide: Not now. Not here. This isn’t mine to address.
That’s discernment.
The distinction I’m learning to pay attention to is whether I chose the silence or fear chose it for me.
When I decide not to speak, I want to understand why. And later, I want to reflect on that decision. Did I make the right call? Did the issue resolve itself? Did it come back around? Do I wish I had said something?
That reflection teaches me to trust myself the next time. Because when I regret staying silent, I’m usually not disappointed because I failed to control the outcome.
I’m disappointed because I didn’t honor myself.
I learned something about that years ago while visiting Alaska. I remember standing there surrounded by mountains, water, wildlife, and this breathtaking landscape, thinking about the magnitude of creation. And then I had a much more personal thought:
The same Creator who made all of this decided the world needed a me.
My perspective. My experiences. My questions. My instincts. My voice.
That doesn’t mean everything I think is right or everything I feel needs to be said. It means I don’t want fear to convince me that what is uniquely mine is somehow less worthy of being considered. For me, that’s where courage enters the conversation.
Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s refusing to automatically give fear the final vote.
The fear may still tell me to be careful.
Good.
I’ll listen.
I’ll consider the timing. I’ll think about my words. I’ll check my assumptions. I’ll stay curious about what I might not know. But then I get to decide.
Sometimes I’ll speak. Sometimes I’ll intentionally stay silent. Either way, I want the decision to belong to me. Because there is a difference between choosing silence and allowing fear to silence you.
And once we decide that something really does need to be said, another question emerges:
How do we say it?
That’s where we’ll go in Part 3.