"She hears everything — the unspoken fears, the hidden pain, the thoughts no one dares to say out loud. When the weight of humanity nearly breaks her, she discovers a power to transform despair into hope. A raw, unflinching journey through the voices we hide and the truths we can’t escape."

People mostly don’t tell the truth. They think thoughts that could kill, but they’d never dare spill them aloud. It’s a lie. The whole human – being thing is a lie. Why? I know it. I can tell you without ever looking into your face. Because I hear you. I feel you. Doesn’t matter where in this goddamn world you are.

In the beginning, I thought I was going crazy. Voices in my head. I’d heard about it — Uncle Jack got locked away. The voices told him to do things he never would have done. And me? I was lying in my bed, tucked in tight, my blanket like armor. Mum kissed my forehead, whispered “Sleep tight. I love you,” and I breathed her lavender scent, smiled, and felt safe.

And then it hit.

A scene, sudden and violent, carved itself into my mind. Someone hitting, screaming. Jackhammer voices pounding through me. “Get the fuck out of here. I’ll never see you again.” A boy crying, anxious, raw terror scraping at my bones. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me trembling but relieved. I drifted into sleep.

But that night, my life changed.

After that night, I told myself it was a dream. A nightmare that just felt too real. But then it came again. Not always loud, not always violent. Sometimes just a whisper slipping through the cracks of my skull.
I tried to live like nothing was wrong. I tried to hold onto what was real.
Grandma’s kitchen smelled like heaven. Butter, sugar, blueberries bursting in the oven. She hummed as she moved, hips swaying like she was dancing with ghosts I couldn’t see. I’d watch her crack eggs, pour flour, and I’d pray that if I stared long enough, I’d stay in her world, not mine.
But even as I bit into the muffin — sweet, soft, warm — I tasted guilt. Not mine. Hers. A thought flickering, >I should’ve called your grandfather’s doctor sooner. Maybe he’d still be here.< My tongue went dry. My throat closed up.
I smiled at her anyway, crumbs sticking to my lips, pretending nothing was wrong.
Mum hugged me at the doorway, lavender and laundry powder clinging to her clothes. Her arms wrapped around me, her heart beat steady against mine. For a moment, I melted into it, safe. Then — her voice, not her lips. A secret echo: >What if she turns out like Jack? What if I can’t save her?<

I pulled back too quickly, muttered, “Love you,” and ran to my room before she could see the way my chest was shaking.
Outside, a girl picked flowers, hair tangled, knees dirty, smiling like the world was hers. She twisted daisies into a chain and whispered to herself, >Maybe if I give this to him, he’ll notice me.< My stomach flipped with the sting of her longing. Even joy wasn’t pure anymore. Everything was laced. Everything was double.
So I clung harder. To the smell of muffins, to the warmth of Mum’s arms, to the way the sun hit the grass. But the whispers crawled in anyway, unstoppable.

At school, it was worse. Kids sat in neat little rows, chewing pencils, tapping feet, pretending to care about geography. Out loud, they raised their hands and said the right answers. But underneath, their minds leaked everywhere.
>I hope she doesn’t notice the stain on my trousers.<
>I want her to look at me, just once.<
>If I fail again, Dad’s going to smash my phone.<
>I hate my body, I hate my face, I hate myself.<
It was endless. A chorus no one else could hear. By the time the bell rang, my skin crawled like ants were burrowing under it.

At dinner, Dad asked me how my day was. “Fine,” I lied, chewing roast potatoes like cardboard. His mouth smiled, but his thoughts stung: >I’m failing her. I work too much. I don’t even know who she is anymore.< Mum sat beside him, nodding at something he said, but her secret voice whispered, >He doesn’t even look at me the way he used to.<
Their words clinked against each other like broken glass, hidden beneath the clatter of cutlery.

I excused myself and went upstairs, shut the door, pressed my face into the pillow until I couldn’t breathe. But even then — voices, voices, voices. A man three streets away screaming into his steering wheel. A woman biting her lip as she typed >I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore.< A boy hiding in his closet because his father was stomping up the stairs.
I thought if I held still enough, quiet enough, maybe it would stop. But silence never came.

The night it broke me, I was sitting on the porch. The air smelled like wet grass and cigarettes from the neighbor’s yard. Crickets clicked in the dark. I was hugging my knees, trying to breathe with the rhythm of the night.
And then it slammed into me.
>Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.<
>If I crash the car, would anyone notice?<
>She’ll never love you back, you’re pathetic.<
>God, I hate my child. Why won’t he shut up?<
A hundred voices, no faces. Too many at once. My chest cracked open under the pressure. I stumbled to my feet, hands clamped over my ears, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t sound — it was inside me.

I ran. Barefoot, through the wet grass, down the road, into the black arms of the trees. Branches whipped my skin, roots clawed at my toes, but I didn’t stop. The city lights fell behind me, muffled, but the voices followed.
Deeper, deeper. Past the houses. Past the fields. Past where I’d ever gone before. Until the only thing left was forest, thick and breathing.

I collapsed onto damp earth, chest heaving, tears choking me. I pressed my cheek into the soil, begged it to swallow me whole. “Please,” I whispered, though I didn’t know to whom. “Please, just let me go quiet.”
The dirt was cool against my face. I held my breath until my ribs screamed. Until my vision blurred. Until I was sure this was it. The end.
But it wasn’t.

Instead of silence, the voices roared louder.
>She doesn’t know how much I need her.<
>I wish I’d said sorry before she died.<
>What’s the point of living when every day feels the same?<
>If I drink enough, maybe the pain will stop.<
They flooded me, a tide, pulling me down, down, down — until suddenly, something shifted.

It wasn’t just noise anymore. I saw them.
A boy sitting on the edge of his bed, his face wet with tears. A woman clutching a letter in shaking hands. A man with his forehead pressed against a steering wheel, knuckles white. Not just thoughts — people.
I gasped, my lungs sucking air back in like fire. I wasn’t drowning anymore. I was inside it, inside them.
And something new stirred in me.
I reached — clumsy at first, like a child learning to walk. I touched the boy’s fear. It curled sharp and tight, choking him. Without knowing how, I breathed into it. “You’re safe,” I whispered, not out loud but into the thread that connected us. His sobs softened. His shoulders unclenched.
The woman with the letter — grief tore through her like a storm. I let it wash into me, heavy, metallic. It hurt — but then I pushed back, gently, with memory. The smell of muffins. The sound of humming. The warmth of a hug. My own anchors. She breathed out, her hands shaking less.
The man at the steering wheel — I felt his rage like a blade, pressing, pressing. My own heart pounded with it. I didn’t fight him. I didn’t silence him. I let him know I saw him, rage and all, and then offered a sliver of calm: >You can drive home. Just one more night. Just make it home.< His hands loosened on the wheel. He turned the key.

I fell back against the soil, trembling. The forest spun above me, stars poking through the canopy. The voices were still there — but different now. Threads I could touch, shift, weave. Not drowning me, but connecting me.
I realized I didn’t need to die to escape them. I needed to meet them. To answer them. To take the raw, unspoken mess of humanity and turn it into something bearable. Maybe even something good.

I laughed, broken and breathless, because the truth was still ugly — people lie, people hurt, people think things they’ll never say. But beneath it, there was a pulse. A need. A fragile hope hiding under the mess.
And for the first time, I could do something about it.
I stood, dirt clinging to my skin, heart pounding steady. The forest wasn’t silent. The world wasn’t gentle. But I wasn’t drowning anymore.
I was listening.
And I could answer.

If you’ve walked these pages with her, you’ve felt the weight of voices no one else can hear — the fear, the loneliness, the pressure to escape yourself. Maybe you’ve even recognized some of your own shadows in hers.

Pause for a moment. Take a breath. Feel the pulse of your own life — fragile, uneven, yet persistent. Even in the midst of chaos, there is a thread connecting you to the world, to others, to yourself.

She learned that survival isn’t silence. It’s presence. It’s answering, gently, to the voices — your own and others’. What might it mean to meet your own pain with that same small, deliberate attention?

As you step back from her story, ask yourself: Where can I be present for the noise inside me? How can I answer it instead of running? Beneath the chaos, there is a heartbeat. Beneath the fear, a thread of light. Even if it’s only small, it is enough to start again.

Love, Stefanie Anna