I was maybe around 7 years old when, every night, my mom would sing me to sleep. Her voice was so relaxing and soft, like a lullaby. I remember always craving that sound because it was incredibly comforting, and I would immediately fall soundly asleep.
Little did I know that the love I felt for my mom's voice back then would be something I'd wish someone would feel when they hear my own voice.
In the 7th grade, while other people's voices deepened due to puberty, mine barely changed and only sounded smaller in comparison to my peers. "Comforted" was what I felt from my mom, but the opposite was what my peers felt when they heard my voice: "irritated." My voice was so small that people thought I was forcing it. I can't blame them; it was also the time when Vice Ganda's song "Wag Kang Pabebe" and the "Pabebe girls" became popular. It was a terrible time for someone with a small voice to be heard.
Faced with ridicule, my confidence shrunk to fit the size of the box holding my voice. Speaking only triggered anxiety, as I was afraid that people would mockingly imitate my voice or that I'd irritate them and ruin their day.
My phone still holds one of the countless recordings I made while trying to practice deepening my voice. It was similar to the numerous takes I did to record a voiceover for presentations until my throat hurt so much that I could no longer speak because I hated how I sounded. It was like how I repeatedly sent voice messages where I think I sounded deeper to my close friend, hoping she would agree that my voice no longer sounded small. I vividly remember the nervousness I felt when I had to shout 'Para po' in a jeepney or 'present' during attendance checking in class. I'd sound like I was about to cry, which was true, out of fear that they'd notice my tiny voice, and I'd be reminded of my failed attempts to change it. Every time I heard myself speak, it only reminded me of the haunting echoes of the people who mocked it or the gentle pattering of my tears as they fell upon a flat surface.
It was until my mom returned home from abroad and I overheard her speaking to her friend. Her friend commented, "Your voice is still so small," which made me realize something I had never thought about before. The voice that comforted me to sleep, the one I had always loved and cherished, was very similar to the one I deeply hated at that time. I tried to listen to myself the way I had listened to my mom's voice before, and oh, how my perspective had changed. Yes, my voice is small, but instead of being irritating, it's more relaxing. My voice, just like my mom's, is as soft as the stuffed pillow that carries all the heaviness of the day at nighttime. My high-pitched and excited voice reminds me of the giggles of children, still innocent and full of wonder about the mysteries of life. My voice has its own unique tune that follows the beat of my soul's innocence and youthful spirit.
I hear it daily, so I wonder how I could have forgotten that I had already heard my voice before, maybe even earlier than my 7th year of life, perhaps even while I was still in my mom's belly—a voice singing with love that I now carry to remind myself that my voice is similar to the comforting sound I heard before.
