A recurring theme woven throughout my life is that of finding my voice. Teachers referred to me as shy. Probably daydreaming or overthinking. Actually, I was noticing. Noticing those left out. Noticing those ignored. Being the voice speaking up on their behalf came easily.
In my early 20s, a coworker called me a friend of the friendless, intended to be a diss, meaning that I had no friends. Here was a glimmer of who I am at my core: a friend of the friendless, a woman using her voice to speak up for others. I don’t have many friends by choice, so both interpretations of the phrase ring true.
Eventually, God provided opportunities for me to stand up and speak up for myself. Thanks, CPE. 
What a gift to find that voice, scary as it can be. Every single time. No one is going to do it for you. Be your own best friend and advocate. Best decision ever.
This grief journey often feels like screaming into the void, trying to find my voice all over again. Folks have fallen off. New folks have come alongside. Unanswered emails or text messages have me asking: is anybody out there? Was I asking or being too much? Grieving folks don’t really know what we need. Thankfully, God does. And God knows, those answers are probably lying in wait in the depths of my spirit.
The author of the book recommendation I posted the other day describes herself as a grief activist. Hmmmm. Kinda fits the noticing and speaking up parts of me, doesn’t it?