My family is full of loud voices. My mom, loudest of all, has a voice that can carry over hills and high wind (a bonus when she spectates my running races). My father has the voice of a politician: balanced, patient, but powerful. My eldest sister’s voice is full of knowledge and opinions, and my middle sister’s is mature and erudite. My house would fill with an orchestra of these sounds, and all my life I would listen to and admire them. I became very skilled at depicting the emotion within their words, or catching hesitation and dishonesty. I learned impressive vocabulary from my lawyer parents and picked up mannerisms from my family’s emotive ways of talking.

Watching and hearing these voices for nineteen years impacted me immensely. As a child, my gregarious sisters would speak for me. As a result, I became accustomed to sitting back complacently and listening. On the one hand, there were huge benefits to this: I would never have to order for myself at restaurants. Instead, my two sisters would fight over that privilege. Also, I avoided conflict with ease. Rather than immediately jumping into arguments and taking sides, I would wait until my additional voice was expected or until a mediator was necessary. On the other hand, however, my tendency to avoid vocalizing my opinions and emotions soon became a debilitating fault.

I often found myself in certain situations unequipped to express how I felt or what I wanted. At home, I would evade arguments with my sisters no matter how right I was, in fear of me being unable to express my position. In relationships, I was constantly told that I was “hard to read” and should open up more. After that inevitable conversation, things would typically end due to a lack of communication (my bad). Surrounded by such talkative people, it was easy (and I was content with) staying unheard.

Gradually in high school, I found ways of expression that were not only verbal. I began to paint and draw and craft. I discovered poetry and songwriting. I expanded my knowledge of music, and also began to write. The only reason I developed any talent in these forms was because I relied on the mediums to convey my current condition. This self-expression released so much unacknowledged tension that had built up within me. As the four years passed, I found my metaphoric voice. I conveyed frustration and anger through art, I recorded love and lust in my poetry, and I exposed my vulnerabilities in writing.

Recently, I’ve found myself under pressure to become a person that I have never been: one that is loud, powerful, opinionated and mature. Those qualities belong to my mother, father, and sisters. Their orchestra of strong voices shaped the person I have become, and have definitely influenced my current literal and metaphoric voice. I may not speak as loudly as my mother, fight as vehemently as my sisters, or give speeches as easily as my father, but I can convey my thoughts in ways they cannot. I continue to struggle with finding my voice, but have found peace in knowing that it will always be heard.

So to the people who say I’m “hard to read”: how can someone possibly read what’s still in the process of being written?