Ten Words a Day

A little over a year ago, I posted this quote in an article about initially losing my voice:

“Time heals all wounds. And if it doesn’t, you name them something other than wounds and agree to let them stay.”

—Emma Forrest, Your Voice in My Head

At the time, I believed I had reached a kind of peace—a shaky acceptance, maybe, but acceptance nonetheless. My voice had become hoarse and unreliable. Then it went with no warning. I had already begun grieving what felt like the slow unraveling of a core part of myself.

I used to sing without thinking—windows down, lungs full, harmonizing with whatever reckless pop or rock song was on the radio or at karaoke. I wasn’t good, but I was loud and free. At the time, I didn’t know how much life lived in the sound of my own voice until I couldn’t access it anymore. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.

Now, I mouth the lyrics silently. I feel the beat in my chest, but not the resonance in my own throat. I am the ghost of a voice that used to fill the air.

A Language of Loss

I was at a place of acceptance when I wrote that article, and that hasn’t changed too much; however, the losses I continue to experience bring with them a dynamic maelstrom of frustration, anger, grief, and a slew of other ungainly emotions.

Acceptance, I’ve learned, is not a finish line. It’s a messy, squiggly line drawn all over the map.

More than a year later, I have almost completely lost my voice.

What remains is no more than a whisper—each word requiring the effort of a scream. One breath equals one word. That’s the transaction now. A fair trade, if the currency were not my energy.

The frog that once camped out in my throat has since moved out—and left behind wet cement as a thank-you gift.

Fucking frog.

I want to scream. I want to curse. I want to belt out a song, or even just mutter “not now” when someone interrupts my thoughts. But I can’t. I write. I create music. I sign. These are now the physical manifestations of my thoughts.

An Exercise in Restraint

Losing my voice has become a permanent, involuntary exercise in restraint. Every attempt to speak drains me like a bloodthirsty vampire.

If the masochist in you wants to know what it’s like, imagine this, if you will: You only get ten words for the entire day. When you speak, you must whisper one word per breath. After you speak, drop to the floor and do ten push-ups per word.

If you’re strict about the rules, only then would you begin to understand what it feels like for me to speak.

It’s as if someone forced you into playing The Quiet Game 24/7, punishing you with a full-body workout every time you lost.

A Litany of Emotions

I’m not entirely sure I’m angry about this. Frustrated, maybe. But even that word doesn’t sit right in my mind. My feelings have melted into each other—grief with tentative acceptance, frustration with deep fatigue, and somewhere in there, a quiet, soft-spoken anxiety about what my future holds.

I’m no stranger to adapting. I’ve used technology, devices, and creativity to overcome all kinds of barriers and disability before. But this—this one feels different. More intimate. More permanent. Like losing not just a tool or physical ability, but a part of my identity.

My voice was never just a voice.

It was how I told stories and sang. How I comforted. How I laughed. And yes, how I cried.

It was how I greeted others when I arrived.

Now, I arrive silently. I stay carefully. I type with urgency, trying to bridge the gap between what I feel and what I can’t say out loud.

Naming the Wound

Time doesn’t always heal. That much I know now.

Sometimes you wake up, and the wound is still there—but smaller, or quieter, or shaped differently. Sometimes the wound learns to live beside you, like that fucking frog. I never said you couldn’t hate the wound.

Maybe that’s why the quote I started with still sticks with me.

A year ago, I thought I was naming it “acceptance.” Today, I might call it something else:
Survival. Adaptation. Restraint. Grief. Grace. Patience.

Or maybe just this: a story still unfolding, told in silence.