By all accounts, I had “made it.”
Executive roles. Industry accolades.
The polished bio, the curated life.
And still — I would lie awake at night.
Not in quiet reflection.
But because I couldn’t sleep.
My mind was spinning — with things to do, problems to solve, people to hold, fires to put out.
What I missed.
What I had to fix.
What might fall apart if I didn’t stay ahead of it.
I couldn’t turn it off.
And the more I couldn’t sleep, the more I filled the space.
More to-do lists.
More striving.
More holding it all together.
But beneath the noise, there was a hollowness.
A quiet ache I didn’t want to name.
I could feel the emptiness — I knew it was there.
But I pushed it aside.
Kept going.
Stayed busy.
Because stopping meant feeling.
And I didn’t know if I had the space — or permission — to fall apart.
I became really good at functioning.
At performing presence while feeling completely disconnected.
At being reliable, articulate, composed — while something inside me quietly pulled away.
People would tell me how grounded I seemed.
I could hold a room.
Lead a team.
Shape a vision.
But the one person I couldn’t lead . . . was myself.
Because I’d built my identity around being capable.
And when that identity started to crack, I didn’t know what was left underneath.
So I tightened my grip.
Pushed harder.
Filled every hour.
Because the truth I was avoiding felt too big to name:
I didn’t want the life I had built.
Not because it was bad.
Not because I wasn’t grateful.
But because somewhere along the way, I had abandoned myself.
And I didn’t know how to come back.
And the thing about abandoning yourself is that you rarely notice it all at once.
It happens in micro-moments.
Tiny silences.
Quick dismissals of your own needs.
A smile when something actually hurt.
A “yes” when your whole body said hell no.
And over time, those small betrayals become a way of life.
You forget they’re even betrayals.
They just look like being responsible.
Being successful.
Being who people count on you to be.
But the cost is quiet.
It doesn’t explode — it erodes.
And eventually, I couldn’t find myself inside my own life.
There wasn’t a single breaking point.
There were a hundred small fractures.
Moments I bit my tongue.
Moments I smiled when I wanted to scream.
Moments I chose the version of me that would be easier to digest — and swallowed the rest.
I kept showing up.
Until one day, I couldn’t.
The body will speak when the soul’s been silenced too long.
And mine — it screamed.
Panic. Fatigue. A grief I couldn’t name.
A knowing that I couldn’t keep living a version of success that asked me to leave myself behind.
And so I began again.
Not with a rebrand — but with a return.
I let it all unravel.
The proving.
The pleasing.
The polished performance.
And underneath it all, I found something unshakable:
My voice.
My truth.
My becoming.
That’s what The Unshackled Voice is.
Not a platform. Not a persona.
A reckoning — and a remembering.
It’s the space I write from.
It’s the pulse that lives beneath my work.
It’s for those who’ve outgrown the rules, the roles, and the rigidity —
and are ready to return to what’s real.
If that’s you, you’re in the right place.
Author’s Note
I wrote this for everyone who looks like they’re holding it all —
and wonders why it feels like something’s slipping away quietly inside.
For the ones who keep showing up, keep leading, keep performing…
even when something feels hollow.
Even when the sleepless nights are filled with spinning thoughts and silent ache.
Even when there’s no space to fall apart — only more to hold together.
This piece isn’t about a breakdown.
It’s about the slow erosion that happens when we abandon ourselves in the name of success.
When we mistake composure for connection.
When the doing drowns out the knowing.
If you’ve ever felt the tension between who you are on paper and who you are inside —
this was written with you in mind.
Not to offer answers.
But to remind you:
You’re not alone.
And you don’t have to keep disappearing inside the life you’ve built.
This is your invitation back to what’s real.
— Carolina
This piece is part of Letters from the Fire within The Unshackled Voice — where truth is not performed, but lived.
If this spoke to you, consider sharing it with someone else who’s ready to hear their own voice again — or give it a restack to ripple it wider.
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