I’ve been writing on the internet since the Yahoo Geocities days—back when personal blogs were clunky, glittery, and filled with badly formatted text. I’ve poured my heart onto metaphorical paper for as long as I can remember, leaving pieces of myself in the digital ether, hoping my words might land somewhere, with someone.
And yet, after all these years, one thing hasn’t changed:
It still sometimes feels like I’m shouting into the void.
The Horton Effect
I think about Horton Hears a Who more than I probably should.
Specifically, that moment when the tiny Whos are screaming—We are here!—desperate to be heard, to be acknowledged, to prove their existence matters.
That’s how it feels sometimes. Like I’m throwing words into the universe, waiting for a Horton to come along and say, I hear you.
And when that doesn’t happen? When the silence stretches on?
It’s deafening.
Why Does It Even Matter?
It’s a question I wrestle with more than I’d like to admit:
What am I even trying to say? And why does it matter?
Because people need people. That’s why.
We are wired for connection—for being understood, for being seen. And yet, for most of my life, I’ve felt like I’m on the outside looking in. I’ve faced so much of this world alone. Too much.
And quite frankly, I don’t want to anymore.
I’m trying to retrain my mind and body to not expect rejection and pain. To reach out, even when I’m scared. To prove to myself that my voice is important, that I do belong, that I am allowed to take up space.
But I won’t pretend it’s easy.
The Battle with Self-Doubt
The self-doubt is relentless. It creeps in when I least expect it, whispering:
“Why are you even doing this? No one cares.”
It tells me my words don’t matter. That silence is safer. That not reaching out is easier than risking rejection. That I should just stop trying.
And if I’m not careful, I start to believe it.
But here’s the thing—I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.
I know I’m not the only one who longs for deep connection but struggles to bridge the gap between wanting it and believing I deserve it.
Perhaps, that’s the whole point of writing this.
A Symphony, Not a Solo
Healing isn’t linear. Life isn’t linear. It’s an ever-growing progression—a symphony, with each instrument playing at precisely the right time.
Sometimes, the music is messy. Sometimes, it feels like nothing is in sync.
But even when it seems like only a single instrument is playing in an empty room, the rest of the orchestra is out there.
The music will come together.
And maybe my voice—maybe your voice—is one of those instruments.
Maybe feeling unheard doesn’t mean our words don’t matter.
Maybe struggling with self-worth while advocating for it in others doesn’t make us hypocrites—it just makes us human.
Finding My Village
I think about the people who have inspired me to keep showing up, even when I don’t feel like I have anything worth saying.
People like Elyse Myers, who reminds me what it looks like to live unapologetically as yourself. To share the whole journey—the messy, the awkward, the deeply human parts—because in doing so, you find your people.
That’s what I want.
To keep speaking, even when my voice shakes.
To keep showing up, even when I don’t know if anyone is listening.
Because maybe, if I keep going, I’ll find my village too.
And so, even when the silence is deafening, we still have to keep speaking.
Because somewhere, someone will hear us.
And when they do, it will matter.
Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings 
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