“This is for everyone who had to shed a bit of their skin to find their voice.”
That line appears in my forthcoming novel, The Eternal Encore, set for release in summer 2025. When I first wrote it, it felt like something my character simply needed to say. But during the editing process, it landed with far more weight than I expected.
It wasn’t just a piece of dialogue.
It was a declaration.
A line in the sand.
A truth I didn’t just write—I needed to claim.
This year marks my tenth anniversary as a published author. Writing those words stirs a complicated mix of fear, pride, and purpose. Because when you step into your voice on a platform this size, you have to own it. That means owning the weight of your words, the power of your message, and the impact you hope your story has on others.
Even sharing this here—on a public platform—is terrifying. But it’s necessary.
I turned 48 this March. I’m proud of where I’ve landed: the silver in my hair, the laugh lines that map years of living, the aches that remind me of time passing. And yet, when I look in the mirror, I sometimes still see a boy I barely recognize—a quieter, more frightened version of myself.
I wasn’t born that way. That version was shaped—by trauma, by fear, by silence.
It took years to peel that skin away. Layer by painful layer. Until I uncovered something real. My voice.
If you’ve followed my work, you’ve likely seen pieces of that journey. I’ve written about my father’s addiction. My mother’s alcoholism. My sister’s battle with cancer. My own eviction. And, most recently, the loss of my beloved dog Pete, who passed in November 2024.
When Pete died, my first instinct wasn’t just to grieve—it was to ask, How do I tell this story?
Because that’s how I survive.
Through storytelling.
Through voice.
Through truth.
And if I can do it—after everything—I promise, you can too.
Finding your voice isn’t magic. It’s work. It took me years of therapy, coaching, prayer, and tear-stained nights. But I kept digging. And that is what The Eternal Encore is really about.
Set in the New York music scene, the novel explores the power of being seen. How mentors, friends, lovers, and chosen family can help us excavate the voice we’ve buried beneath years of self-protection. One of my characters, a quiet bartender at a legendary jazz club, carries a voice that “could stop traffic in Times Square.” But she’s afraid to use it. By the end of the book, her roar is unmistakable.
Because when someone truly sees you, they help nurture your voice until it becomes a force the world can’t ignore.
Now, maybe you’re not writing novels or performing at Lincoln Center (that’s your one spoiler, I promise). But maybe you’re working toward showing up more boldly—in your community, in your relationships, in your leadership.
That still requires shedding skin.
Releasing fear.
Letting truth rise.
I’ve seen it in people I love.
My friend Alex lost his mother earlier this year—a respected municipal judge in Indiana. Back in 2022, Inspired by her years of public service, he and his wife moved back to Indiana from New York so he could run for the State House.
He didn’t win. But the experience wasn’t about winning. It was about beginning. About finally listening to a voice that had been whispering for years. Knowing him, he’ll absolutely be back in that public square.
He had to shed his skin to claim that voice.
Another friend, Emily, reached out after not connecting in way too long. Understandable as she recently became a first-time mother. She asked if I would endorse her debut poetry collection. I read it—and gave her a glowing blurb. But before she could write that book, she had to peel back layers of fear, doubt, and old trauma. She, too, had to shed her skin.
That’s the truth of this work.
Voice is not something we find once and keep forever.
It unfolds.
It evolves.
Finding your voice isn’t binary. It’s not something you’re born with or without. It’s a lifelong process of uncovering, planting, nurturing, and cultivating.
I’ll be doing that work until the day I leave this earth—uncovering new layers, shedding old skins, telling deeper truths.
Because in a world this fractured, this loud, this desperate for meaning—we need more truth-tellers. We need more people willing to be seen. We need more voices—yours included.
So if your voice feels shaky, raw, or still forming—don’t let that stop you.
Speak anyway.
Shed your skin.
And rattle humanity with your voice.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
