V for Voicelessness

Most of my friends are probably laughing right now at the very idea that I would consider myself voiceless.  I get the joke.  I’m a very vocal person, and as I age I grow ever more fearless.  I have reached a stage in my life where I don’t have to worry about finding a job, satisfying current and future clients, balancing my budget, or even what people think of me.  I am who I am, and that comes with having a strong voice.

And yet:  I am also a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and that requires a very different voice.

As a child, I had frequent attacks of laryngitis.  I had one bad episode when I was 13, during an otherwise enjoyable week at camp.  There was also one in college, when my boyfriend Ernie (now my husband) claimed I could yell at him even in a whisper!

The last one was in 2019, but it followed my one-woman musical show, where I sang and talked for 70 minutes straight.  Who wouldn’t lose their voice after that?  The irony was that immediately after the 6-month “vocal break” I prescribed for myself came the COVID pandemic, followed by my breast cancer diagnosis.  I didn’t sing for the next five years.  Still not sure why.  All I know is that I was rebuilding my entire life, and singing was pretty far down on the Must-Do list.

These days, I’m studying voice again, writing lyrical parodies, and performing at occasional open mic nights.  I speak about childhood sexual abuse during personal appearances, during meetings with grantees, and, of course, on-line.  I’ve even done podcasts.  I consider myself a very experienced and vocal advocate in my chosen mission area.

So why am I still, occasionally, voiceless?

There are as many answers to this question as there are different social situations when the question “Just what is it you do, Jean?” comes up.

Let me backtrack once again, very quickly.  I’ve spent my whole life trying to explain what I do professionally.  Having come from a small town in Indiana, it’s understandable that the profession of "corporate media consultant” doesn’t ring many bells.  I worked in film and video for over thirty years, but having spent those years in Chicago, instead of in LA or New York, it still requires explanation.

I just can’t say “philanthropist.”  That sounds way too lofty, and doesn’t say much either.  “Non-profit consultant” is something I can get away with if a short answer is called for, but people often ask, “What type of non-profit?”  Then there’s no going back, and I start talking about childhood sexual abuse.

Sometimes people act interested.  Sometimes they actually ARE interested.  But most of the time they get that look on their faces, the one that says, “Boy, wish I hadn’t asked.”  And I become voiceless.

Every time I choose silence, or change the subject, I’ve let myself down.  Not to mention the millions of survivors out there who choose not to answer the question at all.  I am aware, every minute of my life, that when I speak, I am speaking for 42 million.  But I was born in 1954, raised by a very etiquette-conscious mother, and I tell myself I have to pick and choose my battles.

But do I really?

Look back at your first paragraph, Jean.  You are where you are, and what the hell does a little social disapproval, particularly from people who may not be worth your time and energy, matter at this point in your life?

It doesn’t.  Besides, I’m a professional communicator.  All I need are a few “elevator pitches” I can tailor to the situation, and I’ll be good to go.  Hence, this.  (See?  I know how to use “hence.”)

If you think “elevator pitch” sounds a little hokey, let’s call them “Vocal Nuggets” instead.  Equipped with the appropriate, and well-chosen, “vocal nuggets,” we can manage and maneuver all the communication hurdles that come with having survived a trauma it’s not polite to talk about.  So my first reply would be:

Nugget #1. “I work with childhood sexual abuse survivors.”

I like this, it reminds people that this is a real issue, and it affects more than just the person they might be talking to.  A good start.

Nugget #2.  Assuming you’re still talking, and they’re still listening, you can continue with, “It’s an issue most people aren’t comfortable talking about.” 

No one wants to admit there are things they’re uncomfortable talking about.  Besides, YOU’RE talking about it, so they lose points if they admit they’re uncomfortable.  They may be wishing themselves 1000 miles away, but they’ll give you at least another 10-20 seconds.

Or they may respond lamely with “I just don’t know anyone that’s happened to.”

BINGO!  You’ve just won the lottery.  Now you can use Vocal Nugget #3, the knockout punch:

“Do you know three people?”

Followed by #4: “There are currently 42 million sexual abuse survivors in this country alone.”

Responses to this one vary.  You may get, “Are you sure?”

Your response: “Those are the current statistics from the CDC.”

(LOVE that one.  Thank you, Neil Steinberg, for your column of February 6, 2026).

Or, “There couldn’t possibly be that many.”  Your response: “How many is OK?”  

No one has ever come up with a response to that one.  At least not in polite conversation.

You may prefer not to go there.  No one is judging you.  And no survivor should feel any kind of pressure, ever, to disclose personal experiences.  The beauty of having these nuggets at hand is, you don’t have to.   After more than thirty years of these conversations, I almost never feel shamed, or regretful, after pulling out one or two.    I only feel shame when I don’t.

Voicelessness is not a genetic condition.  No one is born voiceless.  It is something that is forced upon us by a society determined to put its fingers in its collective ears.  There are 42 million of us!  The more we speak, the faster those fingers will have to find somewhere else to be.

I’m glad I wrote this.  I’m looking forward to the next conversations, when I can rely on my nuggets to help me over the conversational hurdles.  

I love nuggets.  Sometimes they’re made of gold.