Speak Loud and Forever Claim Your Peace

Me, aged 5, in Nottingham, UK, 2006

I can no longer claim to be the "quiet kid." At one time, it was a badge of honor...or rather, a resignation to gripping social anxiety. I'm proud to say that Odessa today is loud, she talks a lot, she loves a party, and boy, did I miss her.

As a kid, like many, I was unashamed and unhindered by societal judgments of being "too much" or "too loud" or "too talkative." Homeschooling gave me the freedom to embrace that fully in many ways. I knew lots of kids just like me who were carefree, curious, and busy running mudpie restaurants all whilst starting stick-fort communes in the backyard. From the ages of nil to about 12, I could—and would—talk to just about anyone. I've often joked that it's a wonder I wasn't kidnapped because the "don't talk to strangers" rule hated to see me coming. This is why childhood friends I've recently reconnected with aren’t surprised when I exclaim I still have that fun-loving, extroverted, "talk to anyone" spirit of my youth. And why new friends find it hard to believe when I describe my edgy, quiet, "can't talk to anyone" teenage years.

My teens, while filled with many good memories (these were my peak K-Pop-obsessed years), were also largely eclipsed by worsening anxiety, emotional isolation, and, of course, classic hormonal warfare. For a time in my life that consumed so much of me—like trying to outrun an invisible monster in the dark—it's illuminating to hear the perspective of those who virtually skipped an episode that, for so long, felt like the most important chapter of the series. At the time, it felt debilitating, never-ending, but in reality was not unlike what many of my friends were experiencing. We just didn't talk about it. So, quietly, I felt like a shell of myself and didn't want anyone to peer in too deeply in case they discovered that the vivacious child they knew had disappeared and in her place was some horribly vapid, shallow, insecure failure.

Several years on, I've realized this phase existed in a sort of bubble and doesn't encompass even half my life. That distance has helped me overcome my teenage shame and reclaim myself. That includes the talkative person who laughs all the time and loves talking to strangers once more.

For a time in my life that consumed so much of me—like trying to outrun an invisible monster in the dark—it's illuminating to hear the perspective of those who virtually skipped an episode that, for so long, seemed like the most important chapter.

In the past month, I’ve scheduled at least three virtual and in-person conversations each week, mostly with “strangers.” This is largely driven by my pursuit of professional exploration and global connection as I prepare for postgraduate studies abroad. This will demand careful planning and plenty of logistical acrobatics, so I'm doing my due diligence and trying to get as many diverse perspectives as possible. But also, I'm just really curious about people. Many of these conversations have come from cold messaging on LinkedIn or mutual contacts who’ve generously shared their networks. I look forward to each exchange and feel giddy as I write my thank-you's following what is always a lovely chat about more than just professional advice. Each call is a chance to learn about others’ paths and expand my own sense of possibility. Every conversation informs my journey uniquely and fuels my excitement for the future. It also reassures teenage Odessa whose worry about whether we'll "make it" sometimes still creeps in.

Being able to say that networking is one of my best skills and something I don't just do but enjoy is an idea I would have balked at just a few years ago. My shy, insecure, couldn't-look-you-in-the-eye teenage self would be shaking in her boots at how much I've been intentionally and comfortably talking to so-called "strangers" these days—though the beauty of it is that the people I meet never quite feel like strangers. My child self would probably trade career queries for something more practical, like, What’s the tallest tree you’ve ever climbed? Sometimes we get to talk about those things, too, specially for her.

So, yes, I'm loud, I have a lot to say, and maybe I'm even "too much" for some. I also feel like me again. I may be older now, but every past version of Odessa has shaped the Odessa of today. And all of us are proud.

Me, aged 22, in the Scottish Highlands, 2024.