I once wrote my dad a letter.
He saw it. He never read it.
Instead, he tossed it into a bin filled with useless papers—receipts, old bill statements, junk mail. Years later, my mom and sister found it and told me it was one of the most beautiful letters they had ever read.
But to my dad, it was trash.
Did he ever read it? I don’t know. He never mentioned it. And now, with early dementia, even if he wanted to remember, I doubt he could. But I don’t think he ever wanted to. My words meant nothing to him.
This wasn’t the only time my voice was disregarded.
At the beginning of my deconstruction, a family member sent me an email laying out all the reasons why my evolving view of the Bible was wrong. I took the time to respond thoughtfully, sharing my heart.
Silence.
Years later, I asked if they ever read my response. Their answer?
"Candi, you know I never open my emails!"
I guess I should have known.
There are more instances—ones too painful to write about in detail right now. (I am still a work in progress.) But they all sent the same message:
My voice doesn’t matter.
At least, that was the belief I internalized. My words were no more valuable than a scrap of paper, a crumpled receipt, a gum wrapper.
But here’s the truth: that belief was a lie.
Not just for me. For everyone, including my father. Including you.
The Wound and the Healing
If you know me, you know I refuse to live in victimhood. But part of healing is acknowledging what happened.
And the truth is…
That shit hurt.
When you repeatedly receive the message that your voice doesn’t matter, your subconscious absorbs it.
Over time, I stopped writing. Journaling had been my safe space since childhood, but there are gaps—long stretches of time where I didn't put pen to paper because I thought, Why bother? No one cares.
Instead, I became a people-pleaser, fawning in fight-or-flight mode. Constantly giving others what they needed while neglecting myself.
But then something shifted.
Somehow, some way, I discovered self-worth. I saw the power within me. I saved myself.
And now, I choose to use my voice to help others save themselves.
The Brain’s Filter: What We Focus On Grows
As a hypnotherapist, I’ve learned a lot about how the subconscious mind works.
There’s a part of the brain called the Reticular Activating System (RAS)—it acts like a filter, highlighting what we focus on.
Ever notice how when you’re in a bad mood, everything seems to go wrong? And when you’re in a great mood, life feels full of possibility?
That’s the RAS at work.
If I focus on the times my voice was ignored, my brain will find more proof that my words don’t matter. But I don’t want to live in that space.
Yes, I have been disregarded. But I have also been heard.
There are people who cherish my words—friends, clients, readers, even strangers online.
My writing does matter.
Not to everyone.
But to the right people, the people who need to hear it.
Why I Write
I write because I love to write.
I write because my words have power.
I write because I matter.
Not because I am more valuable than anyone else, but because every single person has a voice that matters.
Will everyone love what I have to say? No. But that’s not why I write. I write because I have something to say.
And when I don’t write—when I silence myself—it’s often because I’ve been triggered into old programming telling me to shut up.
But I see it now. And I shift my focus.
Because healing isn’t about getting revenge.
It’s about reclaiming your power.
So, I write.
For myself.
For those who listen.
For those who need to hear it.
For those who listen.
For those who need to hear it.
And if you’ve made it this far—I write for you.
Thank you.
Love, Can
