The Voice Inside My Head

It’s a strange thing, having someone living in your head who actively dislikes you. I mean, logically, *I* know it’s not me. It's just…a voice. But sometimes, especially when I'm trying to write, or practice piano, or even just trying to get through a day where my dad has asked about college applications for the tenth time, that voice gets really loud. It isn’t constructive; it doesn’t offer helpful suggestions. It just…points out all the ways I’m falling short.

There's this constant low-level hum of dissatisfaction that seems to emanate from somewhere behind my ribs. Like a poorly tuned radio station you can’t quite turn off. Lately, it feels especially critical about my writing. After Phoebe Bridgers played here in April, and people actually *read* what I wrote – seriously, two hundred reblogs on Tumblr? It was surreal – the voice got louder, not quieter. As if suddenly a bar had been set that’s impossible to reach. Now everything I write feels…lacking.

It used to be manageable. Just a little nudge of insecurity before trying something new. “Don’t mess this up,” it would whisper. But now, it’s more like a full-on barrage: "This is terrible," or “No one will care about this.” It makes even simple things feel monumental. Like figuring out the right chords for a song, which used to be relaxing, feels like navigating an obstacle course with judgment flashing on every side.

My mom – she tries, truly she does. She’ll say things like, "You're so talented! You should apply for that writing contest!" But there’s this gap between her encouragement and the weight of what I hear inside my own head. It feels almost… insulting to acknowledge her praise when I know, *know* it could all be a delusion. My dad, on the other hand, mostly stays quiet. He'll ask about grades, about college choices, but never really comments on anything creative. Maybe that’s his way of showing support – letting me stumble and figure things out myself.

I remember reading somewhere—it was in an article about how our brains work—that this inner voice isn't necessarily *you*. It's the leftover from all the times you were told to be better, quieter, smaller. All the lessons we internalize when someone wants us to fit a specific mold. It’s like these old programming loops running in the background, even though they aren't serving any useful purpose anymore.

What I’m starting to realize is that acknowledging the voice isn’t about silencing it completely—because honestly, who knows how to do *that*? It's more about recognizing its function. Seeing it for what it is: a relic of past expectations and anxieties. When I catch myself spiraling – when the list of failures starts adding up – I try to just…notice. To label it as “the voice” rather than letting it consume me. Sometimes, simply naming it takes away some of its power.

There’s a sense of relief in that, honestly. Like finally identifying the source of an irritating hum and realizing you can choose to lower the volume. It's not about striving for perfection—that feels utterly exhausting now—but about being okay with the messy process of creation. Being okay with writing something terrible knowing that there will be another chance to write it better, or just differently.

Maybe the point isn’t to eliminate the critic entirely, but to learn how to listen to the other voices, too – the ones that say, “You’re trying,” and “This is good enough for now.” Especially when my mom says them. Maybe those are the ones worth tuning into a little louder.