I’ve written and rewritten this.

Then re-edited it.
And then un-edited it again.
Because the truth is, even this is hard to say. Not because I don’t know what I feel—but because I’ve spent most of my life learning how to filter it. So it lands well. So it sounds smart. So it doesn’t ruffle feathers. So it’s “valuable content.” So I don’t get told again that I’m too much.

But the signs have been coming in strong lately.
Through people, events, messages, even strangers.
God is nudging me: You’re in a season of finding your voice.

I didn’t like that message.
I resisted it. I argued with it.

“What do you mean find my voice? I’ve always had a voice. I’ve always been loud. I’ve never shut up. I’ve been performing since I could walk. I talk all the time!”

But the message kept coming. So I paused. And I looked. And here’s what I saw.

As a kid, I was that child—bossy, dramatic, teaching my teddy bears and leading the group. I see the same fire in my own child now. But I was constantly told to wait for others, tone it down, let someone else have a go.

I found the stage early. It saved me. It was the one place I was allowed to be big, bold, loud—and it was welcome. I never understood why people feared the stage. I feared the opposite: not having one.

Confidence was never my problem. Being told to shrink was.

As a teen, I went on national TV to talk about being gay.
People around me freaked out. “You’ll regret it.” “Be careful.” “Don’t make this your whole thing.”
My mum was scared for me. I ended up leaving my home country partly because of this fear.

When I started acting professionally, I was told to lose my regional accent. So I practiced RP until my tongue went stiff. Still never quite nailed it. Never quite belonged.

When I became a senior leader, the feedback I got was:
“You’re too aggressive.”
(Yes, that’s the exact word they used.)

Even when I sing—something I love—I’ve been told it’s too loud.
And yet people have said it’s beautiful. That I should join a choir. I probably will one day. That’s the retirement plan.

All these messages… they pile up.
Too opinionated. Too loud. Too clever. Too much.

So I did what so many of us do:
I internalised it.
I adapted.

I found careers that allowed me to listen more than speak.
I became a coach. I moved backstage, directing, writing.
I got really good at holding space for others. Enabling.
And I told myself this was maturity. Growth. Wisdom.

And yes—it was. But it was also self-protection.
It was silence dressed up as grace.

Now here I am. 45. A woman. A migrant. A queer creative. A coach.
And I’m being called—again—to speak. Not just speak up. But out. Truthfully. Fully. Unapologetically.

And it’s not easy.
Even this newsletter—I’ve had to fight the urge to make it sound “clever” or “polished” or “useful.”
AI could have rewritten this better, cleaner, smoother. 

But I’m not letting it.
Because this isn’t about writing a newsletter that converts.
It’s about writing a truth that connects.

And the truth is this:

I’ve spent decades slowly giving up my voice. In small, quiet, socially acceptable ways.
And now, I want it back.

What I’ve noticed through coaching is this:
No matter what someone comes to me with—leadership struggles, creative blocks, relationship questions, life transitions—it often boils down to the same thing:

Finding their voice.

Not just confidence.
Not just communication.
But that deep, rooted sense of truth.
The voice that’s never been allowed to fully emerge.
Or was shut down.
Or never even knew it had permission to exist.

That’s what I do in my work.
And it’s the journey I’m still on too.

This is also what this Pride month is about.

It’s not just rainbows and slogans.
It’s about reclaiming the voice you were told to hide.
It’s about choosing to be seen and heard, in a world that taught you silence was safer.

So here’s to being too much.
To being too loud. Too proud. Too queer. Too clever. Too emotional. Too real.
And finally—free.

Happy Pride.
With love
🧡 Ana

P.S. If you're on the journey to find your voice—and you want someone who truly gets it—I’m here. Let’s talk