I know, I can hardly believe it too.

Maybe that’s why it’s been a little weird to talk about? 

I have this crystal clear memory of when I was 10 or 11 years old, sitting on my bedroom floor with pen in hand. 

I’d had this sudden burst of energy and creativity (not that I knew what to call it back then). And a compulsion to just start writing. 

I felt like I was being taken over by some magical force, or I’d been transformed into a mystical world of fairies and make-belief, except that it felt very, very real. 

I’d have other moments like this, where I had this deep inner sense that I had something in me that had to come out.  

(It could also be why I was so eager to start drama classes, almost like permission to speak and act out the feelings on the inside). 

In this particular memory I start writing full sentences, scurrying faster and faster. It was as if I had an entire novel in me, a specific story to tell, and right now those words were flowing mid-story. Dramatic scene. Main character pouring their heart out. 

It made perfect sense and when reading the passages, you were immediately captivated by the monologue, even though there was no story surrounding it. 

It felt, magical. 

And I LOVED having the words come to me, without question. I loved even more allowing them to flow out of me without purpose. 

I still have that piece of paper. It’s in storage somewhere in Canberra, along with all the other stuff I tucked away when I left for my London adventure (now 8 years ago). 

And I return to the memory of it often. Because in that moment I felt like a writer. At age 10 or 11. Yet it’s only been in the past 12 months that I’ve truly identified and even called myself a writer. 

I was the go-to newsletter writer and penpal (I’m still close friends with my two grade 1 besties from South Africa, because we kept writing to each other when I moved countries). 

I’ve written my Blog consistently for over 4 years. 

I wrote and published 65 wellbeing articles on Forbes.com! 

And still, it took a little time to own the word: writer. 

Now, I know in my core it’s what I am. I have so much to say. Many many words to come. 

And, within a short time, I will have my very own book. 

There’s a fun story to the genesis of this book, which I’ll save for another time. 😉 

Right now, may this story remind you that you too have an inner voice that has been speaking for many many years. She’s been there since the very beginning. 

And, while at times you may have brushed her away, got distracted, or felt a little disconnected – she’s still there. 

What does she need right now to speak up? To have her words heard? 

What does she need to feel safe and ready to shine? 

You probably already know the answer. Because your heart’s been tapping at you. 

There’s so much magic in the tapping. And I can’t wait to hear what you discover when you take, even this mini moment right now, to pause and listen in. 

I didn’t listen to that little girl on her bedroom floor writing pages and pages of what felt like pure, magical, story-telling words. I told her she was just “playing”. Just “dreaming”. And at some point, she had to “grow” up. 

But now I know she doesn’t have to do any of that. And I’m having sooooo much fun reconnecting with what she always knew to be true! 

Here’s to not just listening to our inner voices, but handing them the megaphones!