I’ve been sitting here for about twenty minutes, staring at the cursor. It’s blinking at me. It’s persistent, rhythmic, and, if I’m being honest, a little bit judgmental. There is this specific kind of silence that happens when you’re trying to find the “right” way to start something. You want to sound smart. You want to sound like you have it all figured out. But the truth is, most of the time, I’m just trying to figure out what I actually think before the coffee in my mug turns completely cold.
It’s funny how we’re taught to write in school. Everything is about structure, three-point arguments, and using the “correct” vocabulary. We’re trained to strip the “I” out of the sentence. We’re told to be objective, distant, and authoritative. And then, we spend the rest of our adult lives trying to unlearn all of that so we can actually talk to another human being. It’s a strange paradox. We spend years learning how to sound like a textbook, only to realize that nobody actually wants to read a textbook for fun.
Finding your voice isn’t about adding things. It’s not about finding a fancy new set of adjectives or mastering the semicolon—though a good semicolon is a beautiful thing. It’s more about peeling things away. It’s about getting rid of the “shoulds” and the “supposed-tos” until what’s left sounds like you actually speaking across a kitchen table. It’s a messy process. It’s a slow process. And most days, it feels like you’re failing at it.
The Perfection Trap and Why It’s Killing Your Best Work
We have this obsession with being polished. I see it everywhere. We want the finished product to look effortless, so we hide the struggle. We edit the life out of our sentences because we’re afraid someone might think we’re being too informal or, heaven forbid, that we don’t know every single fact about a topic. But here’s the thing I’ve noticed: the writing that actually sticks with people? It’s usually the stuff that’s a little bit raw around the edges.
When you try to be perfect, you end up being boring. It’s a hard pill to swallow. I’ve written pieces before that were grammatically flawless, followed every “rule” in the book, and had the most logical structure you could imagine. And they were utterly forgettable. They lacked that spark of humanity that makes a reader lean in and think, “Yeah, I’ve felt that too.”
The trap is thinking that authority comes from being cold. We think that if we use big words, people will respect us. In reality, big words are often just a mask. They’re a way to hide that we’re not quite sure what we’re trying to say. When you write simply, you have nowhere to hide. You have to be clear. You have to be honest. That’s where the real authority comes from—not from a dictionary, but from the courage to be understood.
The Fear of Looking Foolish
I think most of our writing blocks come from a fear of looking foolish. We don’t want to say something obvious. We don’t want to admit we’re confused. So, we wait. We wait for the perfect insight. We wait for the “right” mood. But the mood never comes, and the insight usually only shows up halfway through a very bad first draft. You have to give yourself permission to write garbage. It’s the only way to get to the good stuff. I call it the “clearing of the pipes.” You have to let the muddy water run for a while before it starts coming out clear.
Unlearning the Academic Hangover
I remember being told in university never to use “I” in an essay. It was the ultimate sin. Everything had to be “it can be observed” or “one might suggest.” It’s a very safe way to write because if the idea is wrong, it’s not *your* fault—it’s just an observation. But in the real world, the world where we’re trying to connect with people, that distance is a wall. It makes the reader feel like they’re being lectured by a ghost.
To find your voice, you have to reclaim that “I.” You have to own your opinions. It’s scary because it makes you vulnerable. If I say, “I think the world is becoming too loud,” someone can disagree with me. If I say, “It is often argued that the world is becoming too loud,” I’m protected. But protection is the enemy of good writing. You have to be willing to be wrong. You have to be willing to be disagreed with.
When you start writing like a person again, things feel clunky at first. You’ll feel like you’re being too casual. You’ll worry that you’re being “unprofessional.” But “professional” is often just another word for “stiff.” Some of the best advice I ever got was to write like you’re sending an email to a friend you haven’t seen in five years. You’re trying to catch them up. You’re trying to explain something you’re excited about. You wouldn’t use jargon with them. You wouldn’t try to impress them with your vocabulary. You’d just talk.
The Music and Rhythm of a Sentence
Writing isn’t just about information. If it were, we’d all just read bulleted lists and be done with it. Writing is about rhythm. It’s about how the words sound in the reader’s head. There is a music to it. Some sentences are short. Like this. They provide a punch. They wake the reader up. They demand attention.
And then, you have the longer sentences, the ones that meander and flow like a river, taking the reader on a bit of a journey, weaving together different thoughts and ideas until you finally reach the end of the thought and both of you can take a breath. It’s the contrast that makes it work. If every sentence is the same length, the reader falls asleep. It’s a monotone. It’s a dial tone. You have to vary the pace. You have to let the writing breathe.
I like to read my work out loud. It’s the best way to tell if it’s working. If I find myself tripping over a phrase, or if I run out of breath before the end of a sentence, I know I’ve messed up the rhythm. Your ear is a much better editor than your eyes. Your eyes will skim over mistakes because they know what you *meant* to say. Your ear will hear the awkwardness. It will hear the parts that sound like a robot wrote them.
- Don’t be afraid of the word “and” at the start of a sentence.
- Let yourself use contractions—it’s how people actually talk.
- If a word feels too fancy, throw it out.
- Break the rules if it makes the point clearer.
Trusting the Reader to Follow You
One of the biggest mistakes I see—and I do this myself all the time—is over-explaining. We don’t trust the reader. We’re so afraid of being misunderstood that we explain every single nuance of our point. We use ten sentences when two would do. We repeat ourselves in different ways just to make sure they “got it.”
But readers are smart. They don’t need to be handheld through every single thought. In fact, if you handhold them too much, they’ll get bored. They’ll feel patronized. Part of the joy of reading is the “aha!” moment where the reader connects the dots themselves. You provide the dots; let them draw the lines. This creates a much stronger bond between you and the person on the other side of the screen. It becomes a conversation rather than a monologue.
This requires a certain amount of faith. You have to believe that your experience is universal enough that people will understand what you’re talking about, even if you don’t spell out every single detail. It’s about leaving some space in the writing. Space for the reader to breathe. Space for them to bring their own experiences to the table.
The Power of the Specific
Abstraction is the enemy of voice. Whenever I find myself writing about “success” or “creativity” or “productivity” in a general way, I know I’m losing the plot. Those words are empty shells. To make them mean something, you have to get specific. Don’t tell me about “hard work.” Tell me about the way your back ached after sitting in a cheap office chair for six hours. Don’t tell me about “inspiration.” Tell me about the specific way the light hit your desk when you finally figured out that one sentence that had been bothering you for a week.
The specific is where the emotion lives. We don’t relate to grand concepts; we relate to the tiny, mundane details of being alive. The more specific you are, the more universal you become. It sounds backwards, but it’s true. When you talk about your specific struggle, people don’t think, “Oh, that’s just them.” They think, “I know exactly what they mean.”
The Messy Middle and the Will to Continue
Every piece of writing has a middle section where everything feels like a disaster. You’ve lost the excitement of the beginning, and the end is nowhere in sight. You start to question why you’re even writing this. You wonder if anyone will care. This is where most people quit. They think the struggle means the writing is bad.
But the struggle is just part of the process. It’s the friction that creates the heat. I’ve learned to expect that middle-slump. When it happens, I try to lean into it. I stop trying to be clever and just try to be honest. I ask myself: “What am I *actually* trying to say here? Forget the audience, forget the blog, what is the core truth of this thought?” Usually, that’s where the best stuff is hiding. It’s buried under the layers of trying to look like a writer.
Sometimes, the “voice” you’re looking for only shows up once you’re too tired to pretend anymore. You’re exhausted, you’re frustrated, and suddenly, you just start writing the truth because you don’t have the energy for anything else. That’s when the magic happens. That’s when you finally sound like yourself.
A Few Thoughts to Close
I don’t think finding your voice is something you ever truly finish. It’s not a destination you reach where you can finally check it off your to-do list. It’s a constant negotiation. It’s a practice. Some days you’ll feel like you’ve nailed it, and the words will flow out of you like water. Other days, it’ll be like pulling teeth, and everything you write will sound like a bad imitation of someone else.
That’s okay. The point isn’t to be a “perfect” writer. There’s no such thing anyway. The point is to be a *human* writer. In a world that’s increasingly filled with noise, with polished surfaces and carefully curated personas, there is a deep, starving hunger for something real. People don’t want perfection. They want connection. They want to know that there’s another person on the other end of those words who feels the same things they do.
So, if you’re struggling to find your voice, my advice is simple: stop looking for it. Stop trying to find the “perfect” tone. Just start telling the truth about what you see, what you feel, and what you’re trying to figure out. Use the simple words. Use the messy sentences. Be willing to be a little bit unpolished. It’s in those cracks, in those imperfections, that your real voice finally has room to breathe. And trust me, that’s what people are actually looking for.
Now, I’m going to go heat up this coffee. It’s been sitting there long enough.