Accepting My Sound

This post is from a community member who wanted to share their journey of self-acceptance after developing a voice disorder. While they chose to remain anonymous, they hope their story will help others who are struggling with similar feelings.

For most of my life, I never really thought about my voice. It was just there—reliable, predictable, mine. I was a teacher, and my voice was my tool. I used it to inspire, to explain complex concepts, to calm anxious students, and to project authority when needed. My voice was confident because I was confident.

Then everything changed.

The Before and After

Looking back, I can divide my life into “before” and “after” the changes in my voice. Before, I spoke without thinking about it. I answered phones eagerly, participated actively in meetings, and never hesitated to speak up in groups. My voice was strong and clear, and I took that completely for granted.

After my diagnosis with muscle tension dysphonia, everything became conscious effort. Each word required consideration. Would my voice crack? Would it come out strained? Would people understand me? The spontaneous joy I used to feel in conversation was replaced by calculation and anxiety.

I grieved my old voice like losing a friend.

The Shame Spiral

What I didn’t expect was how much shame would come with my voice changes. I felt embarrassed every time I spoke. I thought people were judging me, thinking I was sick or weak or somehow “broken.” I started avoiding social situations, declining invitations, and finding reasons to communicate through text instead of speaking.

I remember one particularly low moment when I was at a restaurant with friends. The server asked me to repeat my order three times, and I could see the confusion and slight impatience on their face. I wanted to disappear. When my friends tried to help by speaking for me, I felt even worse—grateful for their support but humiliated that I needed it.

That night, I made a decision that I regret now: I started isolating myself. If speaking was going to be difficult and embarrassing, I would simply speak less. I would become smaller, quieter, less present.

The Turning Point

The wake-up call came from an unexpected source: one of my former students. She reached out via email to thank me for something I had taught her years before. In her message, she mentioned how my “unique way of speaking” had always made her feel comfortable asking questions because I seemed “real and human, not intimidating like some teachers.”

I realized she was talking about a speech pattern I had developed as a compensation for my voice changes—speaking more slowly, with more pauses, in a lower pitch. What I had seen as a flaw, she had experienced as approachable teaching style.

That message made me wonder: What if my voice wasn’t broken? What if it was just different?

Learning to Listen Differently

I started paying attention to how other people responded to my voice, really paying attention instead of assuming the worst. What I discovered surprised me:

• Most people didn’t seem to notice or care about the changes I was so focused on
• When people did ask questions, it usually came from curiosity or concern, not judgment
• The qualities I valued in my voice—kindness, sincerity, intelligence—were still there
• Some people actually found my voice soothing or interesting

I also started listening to other voices differently. I noticed that everyone’s voice has unique characteristics. Some people speak quickly, others slowly. Some have gravelly voices, others are breathy. Some are loud, others soft. There’s no such thing as a “perfect” voice, and the world would be boring if there were.

Redefining My Voice

I began to understand that my voice was more than just the sounds I made. My voice was:

• The stories I told
• The questions I asked
• The comfort I offered
• The knowledge I shared
• The laughter I expressed
• The love I communicated

Yes, the mechanics had changed, but the essence of my voice—who I am and what I have to say—was still completely intact.

Finding My New Normal

Acceptance didn’t happen overnight. It was a gradual process of:

Adjusting expectations: I had to let go of the idea that my voice would ever sound exactly like it used to. Once I stopped comparing my current voice to my past voice, I could start appreciating it for what it was.

Developing new strategies: I learned techniques from my speech therapist for managing strain and fatigue. I also discovered that being upfront about my voice disorder often put both me and others at ease.

Focusing on connection: I realized that meaningful communication was about much more than perfect diction. When I focused on connecting with others rather than on how I sounded, conversations became enjoyable again.

Building a support system: I found other people with voice disorders online and in person. Hearing their stories and strategies helped me feel less alone and more empowered.

Celebrating small victories: Every successful conversation, every time I spoke up in a meeting, every phone call I answered became something to feel proud of rather than anxious about.

What Acceptance Looks Like

Accepting my voice doesn’t mean I’m always happy about having a voice disorder. I still have difficult days. Sometimes I’m frustrated by limitations or tired from the extra effort required to communicate clearly. But acceptance means:

• I no longer apologize for how my voice sounds
• I don’t let my voice disorder determine my worth as a person
• I advocate for my needs without shame
• I see my voice as different, not defective
• I focus on what I want to say, not how I’m saying it
• I give others the benefit of the doubt when they ask questions

Advice for the Journey

If you’re struggling to accept changes in your voice, please be patient with yourself. Grief is a normal part of this process, and it’s okay to feel sad, angry, or frustrated sometimes. But also know that acceptance is possible, and it opens up so much freedom.

Remember that your voice is more than sound. It’s your thoughts, your personality, your experiences, and your perspective. Those things haven’t changed.

Consider what your voice gives rather than what it’s lost. Maybe you’re more empathetic now. Maybe you’re a better listener. Maybe you’ve developed patience or resilience or creativity in communication.

Connect with others who understand. There’s something healing about talking to people who have walked a similar path.

Be kind to yourself. You’re doing the best you can with the circumstances you’ve been given. That’s enough.

The Gift in the Challenge

I won’t pretend that having a voice disorder has been a gift—that would minimize the real challenges and losses involved. But I will say that learning to accept my voice has taught me valuable lessons about self-worth, resilience, and what really matters in communication.

I’m back in the classroom now, and while my teaching style has evolved, my passion for education is stronger than ever. My students don’t seem to mind that my voice sounds different. They care about whether I’m enthusiastic, knowledgeable, and supportive—and I am all of those things.

My voice may not sound the same as it once did, but it’s still mine. It still carries my thoughts and feelings and stories. It still has value and purpose and beauty.

And so does yours.

If you’re on your own journey of accepting changes to your voice, you’re not alone. Share your experience or find support in our Community Voices section. Every story shared helps others feel less alone on their own path to acceptance.