There’s a certain kind of silence we miss in today’s world—the kind that lets us hear ourselves think. These days, our lives hum with constant noise: the vibration of a message, the rush of updates, the never-ending carousel of posts spinning in the background of our minds. And in that swirl of sound and movement, it becomes incredibly easy for your own creative voice to fade into the background, like a soft melody drowned out by a louder song.
Finding your creative voice used to feel natural. Now it feels like something we have to carefully protect. The digital world, as beautiful and inspiring as it can be, also has a way of stretching our attention thin. Rescue Time found that an average person checks their phone 58 times a day and spends more than three hours scrolling.¹ Three hours of absorbing other people’s ideas, aesthetics, opinions, and emotions. Three hours of comparison. Three hours of noise. It’s no wonder so many of us wake up wondering why our creativity feels distant.
Platforms tend to amplify the same kinds of stories and images, too. What becomes popular becomes repeated. The Atlantic once wrote about how content online begins to look the same—similar tones, similar styles, similar patterns.² People imitate what works, hoping to be seen, hoping to be heard. And yet, the deeper truth is often the opposite: you are most visible when you’re most yourself.
Your voice isn’t something you “invent.” It’s something you uncover—slowly, gently—like brushing sand off a buried stone to reveal the shape underneath. It comes from your private nworld: the memories you still carry, the colours of your childhood, the late-night thoughts you never say out loud, the emotions you didn’t know were shaping you.
A Story: How Emma Found Herself Again
Emma, a freelance writer in Manila, once felt like she was losing her spark. For years, she wrote the kinds of articles the internet loves: bite-sized lists, fast advice, trend-chasing topics. They brought clicks, but not connections. She felt like she was writing from the surface of things, never from the centre of herself. Her audience saw her work, but she felt invisible inside it.
One day—she still doesn’t know why—she turned off her phone for a few hours. She made coffee. She opened an old journal. She wrote without thinking of readers or metrics or hashtags. Just her, in her small room, writing about the things she once loved: the sea breeze from her childhood hometown, the way her grandmother folded clothes, the quiet ache of wanting a slower life. Those small, tender details felt like breathing again.
She did this for weeks—three hours each morning of silence, soft light, and honest writing. And her voice, the one she thought she had lost, slowly began returning to her. It came back with gentleness, like an old friend knocking softly at the door.
Eventually, she shared one of those essays. It wasn’t optimised. It wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t trendy. It was simply true. And readers felt that truth. One said her writing made them cry because it reminded them of simpler days. Another said it felt like sitting beside an open window at sunset. Emma didn’t go viral—but she went deep. And that depth became her place of strength.
Listening to Yourself in a Loud World
The first step in finding your creative voice is to make room for it. Quiet is not just an absence of noise—it’s a space where your mind finally settles enough for your deepest thoughts to surface. Cal Newport writes about this in Deep Work, explaining that our best ideas come when we sink into uninterrupted time.³ Creativity needs stillness, the way seeds need soil.
Journaling helps too. The more you write down your thoughts—messy, raw, unfiltered—the more you start noticing the patterns and rhythms that are uniquely yours. There’s something magical about seeing your inner world on paper. It feels like meeting yourself all over again.
Creating without the intention of posting is another way to reconnect. When you make things only because you love making them, your work becomes lighter, truer. You begin to remember the joy of creating for its own sake—like when you were younger, drawing on scrap paper or humming songs no one else would ever hear.
Learning from artists you admire can be grounding, but not because you want to copy them. It’s because you recognise a kind of courage in them—creators who stayed faithful to themselves despite not fitting the mould. Their bravery is a quiet invitation for you to do the same.
And feedback, when it comes, should never shake your sense of self. Take what helps, release what doesn’t. Not everyone will understand your work, and that’s okay. Your voice is not meant for everyone—only for those who need it.
Your Voice Matters More Than You Know
Your creative voice is the softest, truest part of you. It’s where your memories meet your imagination, where your past meets your present, where your small stories become something bigger. And in a world as noisy as ours, authenticity feels like a warm light in a dark room.
People don’t remember perfect things. They remember honest things.
They remember stories that feel like sitting in a cosy corner.
They remember words that feel like they are understood.
They remember creations that feel like someone finally said what they were afraid to say.
The world is loud. But inside that noise, there is a quiet place where your voice lives—steady, gentle, unmistakably yours. All you have to do is turn toward it.
References:
- Rescue Time study on phone usage and social media.
- The Atlantic article on homogenization in content creation.
- Newport, Cal. Deep Work: Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World, Grand Central Publishing, 2016.