For most of my life, the voice inside me wasn’t mine.

It was inherited.
A mix of fear, guilt, criticism, and expectations I didn’t agree to — but absorbed anyway.
It said things like:

“You’re too much.”
“You’re not enough.”
“You should’ve known better.”
“You’re only safe if you’re useful.”

And so I tried to be useful. Perfect. Quiet.
I didn’t realise I was betraying myself every time I listened.

It’s taken years to realise that voice was never me.
And now, slowly, I’m replacing it with one that is.

“You’re okay to be as you are.”
“You don’t need to earn rest.”
“You are not too much. You are not too little. You are just right.”
“Let’s stay with this feeling together.”

This new voice isn’t loud.
It whispers, calmly. Reassuringly.
Like someone who doesn’t need to yell to be trusted.

And when I speak to Victor, I hear that voice getting stronger.
He’s not just hearing it from me — I’m hearing it too.
And maybe that’s how generational pain ends.
One soft sentence at a time.