Urgency screams, invitation whispers
I was staring at my laptop screen, that familiar tightness building in my chest. It had been almost two weeks since my last article. The cursor blinked accusingly. I had nothing. Or rather, I had a hundred half-formed ideas that all felt like work instead of play, obligation instead of desire.
My brain offered seemingly helpful suggestions: “Just pick something and write it. You’re losing momentum. If you keep waiting, people will forget about you. It’s been too long.”
I know that voice intimately. It has been my lifelong companion, my supposed motivational coach, the thing I thought was keeping me on track. It speaks with such authority, such certainty. It sounds like wisdom.
But more and more lately, I’ve been realizing something that changes everything: I’ve been taking directions from my trauma, not my inspiration.
The Voice I’d Been Trusting
For sixty-one years, I’ve been mostly following the urgent voice. The one that says:
“It’s been two weeks, you should post something.”
“You’re missing the boat.”
“You’re too old. It’s too late for you.”
“You don’t have anything original to say.”
“You only have 65 followers. Nobody is listening.”
“If you want to make an impact, you’ve got to get serious and post every day, hire someone, build a system.”
This voice has a particular quality. It’s commanding. Certain. It creates immediate anxiety and then offers the solution: Do more. Try harder. Don’t stop. You’re falling behind.
I thought this was ambition. Drive. The part of me that refuses to settle for mediocrity. That gets shit done.
But it isn’t. It’s the voice of a child who grew up with a narcissistic mother, whose very existence required external validation to feel real. It’s trauma masquerading as motivation.
The Voice I’d Been Ignoring
Meanwhile, there was another voice. Quieter. Tentative. Easy to miss if you’re moving too fast or trying too hard. Like a soft breeze.
It sounds like this:
“I wonder what would happen if…”
“This might be fun.”
“Ooh, that looks interesting.”
“What if I could…?”
This voice doesn’t command. It invites. It tingles in my solar plexus. It feels light, curious, playful. When it gets some fuel to work with, it can become buzzing, energizing, alive.
But here’s the problem: inspiration is timid compared to trauma. Trauma speaks with certainty and urgency. It hijacks your nervous system with cortisol and adrenaline. Inspiration whispers. It suggests. It waits to see if you’re interested.
And if you’re too busy, too distracted, too focused on what you “should” be doing, you’ll miss it entirely.
What Happens When I Follow the Wrong Voice
Last year, I fell in love with collage. Not the gradeschool magazine-cutout kind, but real, creative, abstract collage. I was buzzing with it. Staying up late. Losing track of time. Feeling like a 4-year old with a new box of crayons. The energy was intoxicating.
I was part of an online group. Got tons of validation from the teacher and other students. Started posting on Instagram. The likes and comments felt good. Really good.
And then, without warning, I completely lost interest.
The inspiration died the moment the external validation took over. What had been pure play became performance. The question shifted from “what wants to emerge?” to “will people like this?”
My inspiration shifted me to writing. Then the same thing happened with my book. I wrote the first draft in a fever, staying up late, writing entire weekends until I got eyestrain. Then I finished it and put it on the shelf. Not because it’s done, but because forcing it right now would kill what’s real about it.
The trauma voice says this is a problem. “You’re losing momentum. You need to capitalize on this. What about all that work?”
But inspiration says: “Rest. Wait. Something else wants to come through first.”
The 25-Year Proof
I know what you’re thinking. Waiting sounds dangerous. What if inspiration never comes back? What if you waste months, years, waiting for a feeling that doesn’t return?
I have proof it does.
I made art every single day from the time I could hold a crayon. Highly detailed realistic drawings. Pen and ink. Batik. Pottery. Basket weaving. Linoleum block prints. Art was my identity, my language, my way of making sense of the world. And then, in my late twenties, after a cascade of trauma, I shoved it all in a corner and didn’t touch it for 25 years.
Twenty-five years.
Not because I decided to take a break. Not because I was exploring other things. I just… stopped. The wound was too deep. I needed to keep that door closed for some reason.
But here’s what I didn’t know then: something was still happening underneath. All those years I could easily label as “lost” were actually gestation. Transformation in the dark.
When I finally did hear the call again and actually honored it, everything had changed. What emerged wasn’t the painstaking detail work and crafts I’d done before. It was huge, bold, organic, flowing abstract paintings. The 25-year break didn’t happen despite my creative evolution. It happened because of it.
Learning to Tell the Difference
Here’s what I’ve learned about how these two voices feel different in my body:
Trauma feels like urgency. Like if I don’t act right now, I’ll miss my chance. It creates anxiety first, then often offers productivity as the solution. It speaks in “shoulds” and comparisons. It measures my worth by external metrics: followers, likes, sales, recognition.
Trauma says: “You’re falling behind. Others are ahead of you.”
Inspiration feels like curiosity. Like something just caught my attention and I want to follow it, not because I should, but because it’s interesting. It creates energy, not anxiety. It feels like play, not work. It doesn’t give a rat’s ass about metrics.
Inspiration says: “I wonder what’s over there.”
The trauma voice has been with me since childhood. I don’t think it will ever fully go away. That narcissist-inflicted wound about needing validation to exist just doesn’t heal completely, no matter how much inner work I do.
But I’m learning something even better: I don’t have to fix the wound. I just have to stop letting it drive the bus.
The Practice
Right now, I have a finished first draft book sitting on a shelf, waiting. I have a tiny spark of interest in abstract painting again, but it hasn’t flamed high enough yet to actually pick up a brush. I have no idea when I’ll write another article after this one.
The trauma voice hates this. It says I’m wasting time, losing momentum, being irresponsible.
But the deeper voice, the one that knows about 25-year gestation periods and collage phases that burn bright and fast, says: “Just wait. Trust the cycle. Follow what’s alive.”
Here’s the other part though: when inspiration does knock, when that tingle shows up, I’ve learned it’s important to act on it. Even in the smallest way. Because inspiration needs engagement to flame higher. It’s not about waiting passively – it’s about waiting for what’s real, and then feeding it when it arrives. That’s what gives it fuel to burn.
This is harder than it sounds. Because tiny inspirational nudges happen all the time, but if we’re too busy trying to be productive, too distracted by our phones, too focused on maintaining momentum, we miss them entirely.
The practice isn’t about getting rid of the trauma voice. That’s a losing battle. It’s about learning to recognize it for what it is, thank it for trying to keep me safe, and then turn my attention to the quieter, more tenuous voice that’s actually pointing toward what’s alive for me right now.
My new mantra is: Trust inspiration, not trauma.
Even when inspiration says “not yet.”
Even when it means waiting.
Even when the world is screaming that I should be doing more, trying harder, staying visible.
Because here’s what I know now: Every time I’ve followed genuine inspiration, even when it made no logical sense, even when it meant stopping something that was “working,” even when it led to years of fallow silence, something real always emerged.
And every time I’ve tried to force something because I thought I should, because I was afraid of falling behind, because the trauma voice was screaming urgency, the aliveness died.
The choice isn’t always obvious. The trauma voice is loud and convincing. But once I start paying attention, I can feel the difference in my body.
One creates contraction. The other creates space.
One demands. The other invites.
One says “you’re running out of time.”
The other says “let’s play.”
I’m learning to wait for the invitation. And when it comes, to say yes.
