How to Listen to the Voice You’ve Been Avoiding

In this month’s reflection, we explore:
• Why we resist inner stillness
• How imagery reveals hidden emotional truths
• A simple daily practice to reconnect with your inner voice
• The difference between imagination and intuition—and where they meet

This is a quiet, powerful read for anyone ready to turn inward without fear.

I am standing in a department store in Chicago, on the second floor of Macy’s, moving from one building into another. The space is bright, full, overflowing with objects. Everything calls for attention. Everything asks to be chosen.

And yet, I feel lost.

The floors stretch and turn. The displays blur together. I am surrounded by color, fabric, movement, voices. It is beautiful, but disorienting, like being gently spun in circles until I no longer know which direction is mine.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear something else, a low, steady sound.

A foghorn pulls at me.

I keep walking, as if I am still shopping for something, some treasure just around the next corner. Something that will finally feel right. Something that will confirm I am in the right place, moving in the right direction. But, beneath that searching thought is another question:

Why do I resist stillness?

Why, when everything around me feels overwhelming, do I not simply stop?

I imagine sitting at a small table beneath a tree in Macy’s, tea in my hands, warmth rising, English muffins with jelly, a quiet pause. For a moment, I almost allowed myself that rest.

And then memory enters.

  My mother’s voice, gentle but firm:
“What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”
“You’re choosing a difficult profession.”
“I don’t think you’re going in the right direction.”

There are no alternatives offered. Only doubt.

And so I learn something many of us learn:

That even when the heart says yes, the world may say no.
And when that happens, we begin to mistrust our own inner wisdom.

In my imagination, I leave the store.

I walk toward Michigan Avenue, toward the museum, and then further, to the edge of Lake Michigan. I pass through the underground corridors, feeling the shift beneath my feet, until I reach the open shore.

There, the fog rolls in.

Slowly. Completely.

The sound of the foghorn deepens. The world softens. Edges dissolve. And something in me lets go.

Here, I do not resist stillness.

Here, stillness receives me. I sit and watch.

The fog moves like breath across the water, and within it, shapes begin to form. Images rise and dissolve—figures, gestures, suggestions of meaning.

At first, I questioned them.

Is this imagination?
Or is something deeper speaking?

This is where many of us turn away.

Because the moment we begin to see inwardly, we also begin to doubt. We have been taught that imagination is not real, that it is something we make up, something less trustworthy than logic or reason.

But as I sit, I begin to understand:

Imagination is not the opposite of truth.
It is the doorway through which truth first appears.

The images shift again. I notice something else—something more subtle.

The images are not random. They are shaped by feeling.

My emotions move, and the imagery responds. Fear tightens the form. Curiosity opens it. Calm allows clarity. It becomes clear that what I am seeing is not fantasy alone. It is emotion given shape.

And within that shaping, something honest begins to emerge.

Then, at the edge of my awareness, something persistent appears.

A bird.

Its wings flutter. Its call is soft but insistent. It does not force itself forward. It waits for my attention. And when I finally turn toward it, when I truly listen, it comes closer.

It lands.

And in that quiet, unmistakable way that inner knowing speaks, it says:

“You called me. I am here to tell you what you need to know.”

What follows is not instruction. It is recognition.

A remembering.

You are not lost.
You are not on the wrong path.
You are walking a path that only you can walk.

The doubt you feel is not your truth—it is something you have been given. Something repeated until it felt like your own voice.

But beneath it, there is another voice.

Quieter. Steadier.

Yours.

The bird shows me something else.

A tree appears, filled with birds, each one different colors, each carrying something: a talisman, an amulet, a fragment of meaning.

One object draws my attention: a small book.

I recognize it. A childhood object. A symbol of early teachings, beliefs given to me before I knew how to question them.

As I hold it, it changes.

It grows. Expands. Becomes something ancient, then something modern—like a tablet, holding not just memory, but possibility.

A living record. And I understand:

Your inner world is not fixed.
It evolves as the heart engages with it.

Another image appears, a small spinning roulette cage filled with numbered wooden spheres, like a child’s game. I ask a question:

How does imagery reveal hidden emotional truth?

A number rises.

And with it, an answer, not as a sentence, but as a feeling. A knowing. A recognition of loss, of change, of endings that shape beginnings.

I realize then:

Truth does not always arrive as words.
It arrives as experience and emotion.

The fog begins to thin.

And with that clarity comes something simple, but essential:

We resist stillness because we have been taught to.

We have been told it is unproductive. Unreal. Unsafe.
We have been told to look outward for answers, to measure ourselves against expectations, to keep moving so we do not have to feel.

But stillness is not empty.

It is full.

Full of images.
Full of emotion.
Full of guidance.

A Simple Practice

If you are unsure where to begin, begin here:

Sit quietly.

Let one image come to you—just one.
Do not force it. Do not analyze it immediately.

Instead, ask:
How do I feel as I look at this?

Stay with the feeling.

Let the image respond.

In this space, you will begin to notice something subtle but powerful:

• Imagination follows desire. It arranges, decorates, reshapes.

• Intuition reveals. It may not be comfortable, but it is clear.

Where they meet is where truth becomes visible.

The fog lifts.

I stand, walk back toward the museum, and eventually return to the store.

Nothing outward has changed.

But something inward has.

When I see my mother again, her question still hangs in the air. But this time, it does not carry the same weight. Because I am no longer asking her to tell me who  I am. Instead, I feel something steady within me. And I understand:

No one can walk your path for you. No one can define it from the outside.

But you can listen. You can trust.

You can take the next step, even if it is uncertain, and let your own footprints show you the way.

Closing Reflection

There is a voice within you that you may have been avoiding.

Not because it is wrong, but because it asks you to trust yourself.

If you are willing to sit in stillness, to listen without shaping the answer, to feel without turning away, you will find it. And when you do, you may discover something quietly profound:

You were never off your path.

You were only learning how to listen to the voice you’ve been avoiding.