The Voice I Thought I’d Lost: Reclaiming Strength After Silence and Survival

Jun 16
3 min read

By Allison J Briggs, LPC

I used to believe strength meant not having needs. Holding it together. Being the one everyone could lean on—even when no one asked how I was doing.

But that wasn’t strength. That was survival.

Like so many trauma survivors, I had learned that love was conditional. That emotional needs were burdens. That being chosen meant being useful. I became highly attuned to others while disconnecting from myself. It looked like compassion. But it was codependency.

Healing didn’t arrive all at once. It came in fragments—in truth-telling moments, in dreams, and in the pain of watching my youngest son, who was born with a chromosomal anomaly and is neurodivergent, go unseen by the very systems meant to support him.

In the summer of 2023, everything came to a head. My oldest had just left for college. My mother was declining from dementia. And despite years of trauma work, I found myself caught in relentless anxiety attacks and severe insomnia that made no sense on paper. I was a therapist. I had done the work. But my body didn’t care about what I knew—it felt like it was on fire.

The Grief I Didn’t See Coming

Grief doesn’t always show up as tears. Sometimes it arrives as tightness in the chest, racing thoughts, and the sense that you’re unraveling—just when life finally quiets down.

What surfaced that summer wasn’t just about my mother or my son. It was the return of abandonment trauma I hadn’t fully metabolized—memories of a childhood separation from my mom that had left deep scars. I had been carrying the weight of that loss for decades.

And while Brainspotting and EMDR helped, developmental trauma is sneaky. It resurfaces in ways you don’t expect.

From Panic to Power

I started antidepressants. I continued trauma work. The panic slowly eased—but underneath it was something stronger. Rage.

It wasn’t rage at one person. It was the collective weight of years spent performing strength. Of setting boundaries and watching people walk away. Of advocating for my child and meeting systemic resistance.

That rage wasn’t destructive. It was clarifying.

It showed me what I would no longer tolerate. And the fear of abandonment? I had already survived it. I was standing on my own, with nothing to lose. And from that place, my voice began to rise.

I Found My Voice in the Fight

Over the next two years, I used my voice in ways I never had. I spoke in rooms where I used to shrink. I stood up to systems that felt immovable. I stopped apologizing for being “too much” and started honoring the fire in my chest and diaphragm that had been waiting to be released.

The more I spoke, the more my body released what it had been holding for years. I realized that healing isn’t just about insight—it’s also about expression. Naming truth. Letting anger have a voice. Taking up space. That’s when something in me began to shift—not all at once, but meaningfully.

I wasn’t loud. But I was clear.

My voice wasn’t angry. It was anchored.

This Is What Rising Looks Like

I don’t always know where my voice will lead. But I trust it now.

Because strength isn’t about volume. It’s about truth.

And truth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like quiet courage. Patience. Persistence. The kind of faith that keeps speaking through pain—still choosing hope. Still choosing to rise.

As a therapist, I’ve seen that trauma doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it looks like perfectionism. Hyper-independence. Being the one everyone admires, but no one really sees.

Today, I speak for those women—the ones who’ve been called too sensitive or too intense. The ones now reclaiming their sacred anger, their softness, their power.

I’ve stopped asking for permission to be real. I’ve stopped abandoning myself to be palatable.

And in that choice, I’ve found something deeper than strength—something rooted. Grounded. Unshaken.

This is what rising looks like:

Not flashy. Not instant. But fully, irrevocably mine.

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