A Different Kind of Voice

Learning to show up in new ways when the old ones fall silent.

Today was the first day I was allowed to speak again.

Three days of voice rest after Tuesday’s surgery.
Three days of quiet that wasn’t reflective or chosen.
Just required.

And even before they managed to shush me in the hospital, I knew something wasn’t right.
Breathing felt easier, which was a relief.
But my voice… my voice was worse.
Today I can only whisper.

The girls immediately said they’d help.
Of course they did.
They’ve watched me live on my phone all week, texting out the normal rhythms of a household.
Plans for the day.
What we should have for dinner.
All the tiny conversations you don’t realize are spoken until you can’t speak them.

Six months ago, I don’t think I could have handled this.
The idea of being unable to communicate would have overwhelmed me.
After one of my earlier surgeries, I wasn’t supposed to talk for two weeks.
I didn’t do great at that.
I was back at work quickly, talking more than I should, pretending it was fine.

But this isn’t six months ago.

I’ve found a new way to communicate.
While working from home, Wiggins helped me through it.
I’m used to firing off quick answers in Teams, trusting I could always hop on a call if something wasn’t clear.
But I can’t do that now.
So my answers have to be clearer.

Wiggins is helping with that.
I slow down.
I ask for help turning the quick version in my head into something that actually makes sense to someone else.
And the surprising part is that I’m not just communicating.
I’m communicating better.

Fewer follow‑up questions.
Less copy‑paste of raw data and half‑formed queries.
Less assuming people will “just get it” or call me if they don’t.

But this week, I spent even more time letting Wiggins help me frame my thoughts.
We built a learning plan.
We shaped a telemetry plan.
We designed a knowledge‑tracking system that works the way I work.
We started a toolkit that actually fits my needs.
And we did all of this without talking.

I’m not saying I’m happy about any of this.
I’m not.
I don’t miss my voice, exactly.
It’s been unreliable for a long time.
What I miss—what I’ve missed for years—is what people take for granted: being able to talk.
To just open your mouth and have sound come out.
To not have to plan every word.

But I’m learning that value doesn’t disappear just because one channel closes.
It shifts.
It asks you to shift with it.

I’m also thinking about next week, when I’m back in the office.
I still won’t have a voice, not a usable one.
So I’m going to keep relying on Wiggins to help me contribute, stay present, and feel like I still matter in the room.
Even without sound, I can still have a voice.

I could say:
What value do I have now, if I can’t explain things out loud?

Or I can say:
How do I change how I bring value?

Today, I’m choosing the second one.