Finding My Voice Again: Letting Go of Expectations and Embracing Growth

I’ve revamped my website, Liz’s Unheard Voice, taking down previous posts as I try to find a rhythm and flow that works for what I’m trying to say. The hardest part is knowing where to begin. I can't go back through the past—there’s just too much. But here’s what I’ve realized: the pain I carry is no longer tied to Dylan's death. It's tied to something deeper—society's rejection of my pain.

People want me to move on and heal. I feel, however, I’ve accepted Dylan’s death. What I can’t stop is the vision that keeps calling me. I can’t stop believing that people are struggling because we live in a world that doesn’t always know how to embrace differences. We are all unique, and we all hold value, but we aren't always allowed to express ourselves because the world isn’t ready to listen.

I can laugh. I can smile. But when I speak about the pain I’ve endured, it makes others uncomfortable. They don’t know how to respond. I see now that my expectations for others to hold my pain had become a burden. I couldn’t make them sit with it. My passion for speaking my truth—giving a voice to the countless people who struggle silently—became too much for my loved ones to understand. They couldn’t see the vision because it was fragmented and broken, much like my mind at the time.

I knew my mind was fractured, shattered by grief. I had clung to Dylan, his memory, and his sensitivity, which felt like my own. I didn’t want those things to get in the way of my love for my family, but I needed them to be gentle and kind with me. What I didn’t see was how my heightened sensitivity, already a part of who I was, had intensified. I became reactive, unable to pause, unable to regulate my overwhelming emotions. And unlike Dylan, I was wired to fight. I wouldn’t stay quiet—I wanted to scream and yell, much like society is doing right now.

I wanted people to hurt because I was hurting and I needed them to understand why. I knew it wasn’t fair. I knew my family never hurt me intentionally. In fact, they wanted nothing more than to not see me hurt. Wasn’t that why we were fighting in the first place? It took a long time to realize I had become part of the problem. I was so desperate for someone to understand my pain that I tried to force it on others.

I understand now—they weren’t my audience. They felt slapped by my need to show them how I was suffering. It wasn’t their fault. They had been there with me through my darkest moments; they had endured enough of my pain. I couldn’t keep asking them to share my vision. I needed to step back and recognize what I truly wanted.

What I wanted was connection, but I couldn’t force them to understand. I had to accept that they were not the ones meant to carry this vision with me. It was time to change my audience and shift my focus. I didn’t need to scream my pain at those who had only ever tried to support me. Instead, I needed to refocus on the purpose behind my vision—to show others that there is a way out of their pain.

It’s time to move forward. People will understand my message, or they won’t. Either way, I mean no harm. I love my family more than anything. But I recognize that I have a tendency to speak in absolutes. My language reflects the intensity of the pain I feel in any given moment. It’s my mind’s way of quickly signaling that I’m hurt, but that often makes people believe they need to fix it. They can’t.

The truth is, I’m not truly in pain anymore—at least, not in the way I once was. What I’ve been battling is a self-fulfilling prophecy rooted in fear. Fear of rejection. My self-esteem became tied to my vision, a vision built on my personal struggles, my losses, and the ongoing effort to pick myself up.

Now I see that I have the power to rewrite that narrative. I can continue to build this vision—not for validation, not to prove anything to anyone—but because it is mine. I will honor it and myself by moving forward with love and grace. I will let go of the expectations that have weighed me down.

This is where my journey begins again. I know I’ll face more obstacles—moments when fear, doubt, and the need for understanding creep in. But this is only the first step. There will be more reflections, more growth, and more realizations along the way.

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Stay tuned for more journal entries as I continue to share my struggles, breakthroughs, and the lessons I’m learning in this journey toward healing and connection. Thank you for walking alongside me.