Recently I stood on a stage again. During the talk I felt something I hadn't known before — a deep doubt about whether what I was saying made any sense at all. Public speaking had never been a problem for me, yet for some time now a doubt had been growing in me, one that translated into sleepless or poorly slept nights before each appearance in front of people.
After one of those talks I realised I hadn't published anything in a long time — neither on social media nor on the blog. My quiet resolution for this year had been to write one post a week. Life wrote a different script, and I started asking myself: what is actually happening to my voice? Why is there less and less of me?
Rapid Shifts in Priorities
The last few months were a series of rapid shifts in priorities. Last year's summer and recruitment processes bore fruit in the autumn and winter in the form of two Code First Girls programmes: +Masters, during which I started learning Java, and the Mid Level Accelerator, meant to help develop the competencies useful in a mid developer role. Before they began, someone asked me: how are you going to find time for all of this?
I thought then that it would be as usual — I'd put a bit of time after my freelance work into learning and that would be enough. When the programme started, "a bit" turned into "a lot", and then into "a great deal". Out of sheer momentum I kept dragging various activities along, thought about new goals, and at the same time wondered more and more often whether what I was doing made any sense at all.
After I finished the programme, the world sped up even more. I applied to INCO Academy, wanting to earn my first cybersecurity certificate. And then, out of the blue, a chance for an internship at Bayer appeared. Working on the project became the priority, and after hours — the certificate.
Before my professional situation changed, I was caught in a kind of straddle. On one hand, I was still growing as a developer. On the other, I was thinking more and more seriously about alternatives: about trying to break into cybersecurity, or even about giving up on the dream of IT and "latching onto anything", just to avoid getting stuck in the existentially dull place I was in. The phone call telling me I'd been accepted for the internship overturned all my earlier plans overnight. Why try to write for the website, record a podcast, publish on LinkedIn, when it starts to cost too much energy, and an offer has just appeared that is a proverbial game changer? Time to rest, gather strength, and then commit.
Doubt in the Silence
And yet I think that if I'd really cared, I would have found the time to write, to run the blog, to record a podcast. Even despite the emptiness in my head that I wrote about, clumsily, in March. Reading that post today, I see an attempt to explain away my inactivity. And yet back then I still didn't know that my life was about to undergo a solid rearrangement. Though I already felt that I had less and less room to create.
I attributed my creative barrenness to being overloaded with studying, to general fatigue, maybe even to nearing burnout. Fatigue certainly didn't help, and taking care of rest didn't hurt.
Then I noticed I had more energy, I found my footing at the internship, I finished the certificate. My head is full of ideas, I write them down, I create drafts — but I can't get started writing. Just as for weeks I couldn't bring myself to sit down at the sewing machine and sew something.
Only now do I see that fatigue, though significant, was not the most important piece of the puzzle. That piece was the growing conviction that what I had to say was not important enough to commit to electronic paper. In the silence of everyday struggles, I lost my voice. Doubt crept in — doubt stemming from the emotions that came with earlier experiences: hundreds of CVs sent out with no reply, dozens of rejections, recruitment processes that never ended in a job. The discouragement brought by projects coming to an end, and an organic reluctance to look for the next freelance foothold. And then the next one.
Doubt in the power of my voice was a symptom of something bigger — a creeping doubt about whether IT was really the path for me. The last three years taught me a great deal, but they were such a hard time that even with ideas in my head for how I might keep growing, I no longer saw the point in it.
One of the principles of solution-focused therapy (SFBT) says: "if something isn't working, do something else". If my voice changed nothing, was there any point in continuing to speak? Is my story — interwoven with struggles and dull everyday life, garnished with uncertainty about what comes next — even worth telling?
Goal vs. Process
I'm currently reading "Atomic Habits" by James Clear. In the first chapter he writes about the difference between a goal and a process — and about how, for work to translate into results, you often have to wait longer. Small decisions add up and at some point amount to a bigger change.
Had I read this book a few years ago, I would probably have looked differently at that hard, "fruitless" time, when my knowledge and skills were growing but it didn't translate into any visible change. Back then I mostly felt mounting frustration, interspersed with small successes that gave me strength — but not enough to bear the daily struggles with equanimity.
Quite a few people congratulate me on starting the internship, and that's nice. But I feel that what deserves congratulations is not the mere fact that I can call myself "an intern software engineer", but that for 4.5 years — first 1.5 years at a startup, then 3 years as a freelancer — I worked towards this moment. Consistently. Step by step.
Reclaiming My Voice
One of the lessons of this time goes like this: if you treat your voice as a tool that, with the right personal-brand building, will land you a job, you may be in for a surprise. That's a privilege of the few influencers whose stories echo far and wide. Visibility matters — but so do many other things that go into being considered a serious candidate.
I used to think that when I spoke, wrote, gave talks, recorded — I would be heard. That when I showcased my experience properly, used the right words, I would be noticed. And when that brought no results, I fell silent.
Now, feeling that my work has finally borne fruit I'm genuinely proud of, I'm beginning to see the bigger picture. I can return to speaking in my own voice — but it stops being a tool for achieving a goal. It becomes a part of the journey.
I don't want to use my voice in order to be visible. I don't want to use it by force, because "that's what you're supposed to do". I want to convey what matters to me. I want to give myself the right to tell my own story and to share what I want to share — not what I have to or ought to in order to reach some mythical goal.
It's hard to grant yourself the right to a voice when you treat it instrumentally. At some point you can become deeply discouraged, maybe even burn out. But if, on the inside, I grant myself the right to be, to have my voice in the world — even if I'm the only one who hears it — the voice stops being a tool to be used and becomes a part of my story.
By giving myself the right to a voice, I also give others the right to hear it. The whole story stops being a story about a goal — about churning out 52 posts in a year or building a personal brand by running a blog. It becomes a response to an inner need and a part of the process of becoming. And such a voice, I think, is far more interesting to hear. And far more pleasant to speak and to write.
I don't know what will happen the next time I stand on a stage. But I hope I'll get at least as much joy out of it as I got from writing this post.
Post Scriptum
The post was waiting for its final, cosmetic touch-ups when I found myself facing something that practically demanded that I speak up.
The situation is complex; suffice it to say that arrangements and expectations keep shifting fluidly, and for months I've had a growing sense of helplessness now turning into powerlessness. A painful, tender, paralysing powerlessness.
The temptation to choose a strategy of silence was enormous. But this time it was no longer possible for me to ignore the terrible physical pain caused by the tension in my chest muscles. I knew what comes next — more sleepless nights, moments of apparent relief when I do doze off, after which I wake from an exhausting sleep. This is how the subconscious tries to cope with the situation. And then come the days when I drift around like a zombie and try to survive.
This time, I spoke up.
The fear didn't magically disappear. I didn't sleep much better last night. But it was a little lighter. My throat is less tight, and I feel that even if I can't do anything, I can express my opinion.
Maybe my voice won't matter to others. But the very fact that I didn't stay silent brings a lot of comfort. It's a small step. But without small steps, you can't think about distant journeys.
