Do you know what it means when someone says, “Listen to your voice”?
I used to think that meant if I tried hard enough, if I trusted myself enough, if I could just choose the voice that seemed loudest — or was it the softest?
Your voice is not a sound. It is a feeling.
It is a mixture of the current energy of the environment around you and your own calling. Your destiny. You cannot be led wrong.
But you can be led away.
Your voice is the quiet whisper that might not even feel like it comes from you at all, but from something greater. A greater wisdom. An energy force that comes to co-create with us.
As the days, weeks, and months flow into each other like rivulets converging into one grand river, I feel the passage of time more like a test.
Sometimes I hear it — that soft whisper. It is when I am out walking, called into the forest.
Even though my mind tells a pretty convincing story about how turning around and walking back home after less than twenty minutes outside is the right decision.
“Oh how cozy we can be,” it persuades.
I stop.
I wait.
I listen.
I feel.
There is a tug on this invisible string that connects to some deeper and more distant part of me. It is so easy to miss and even easier to ignore.
My mind moans and groans:
“I don’t have time to just explore and be free and wild and whimsical today. We have things to do.”
But then there is the other energy:
“Go wild one, follow this thread, even though you might not know where it leads.”
Then the mind again:
“Let’s just go back home where it’s warm and cozy and you can do all the mind things we have to get done because if you don’t, you are behind.”
I am getting better at listening to that invisible tug — the one that leads me down paths I’ve never taken and inevitably off the path altogether, traversing forests I’ve walked beside but never truly through.
There have been three walks like this that have deeply interested me.
Looking back, I feel I was in training but had no sense that I was while I was in it.
They all started the same way — on a random weekday when the outside felt like a needed cleanse for my soul. So I put on my many layers, gathered my willpower, and set off uphill and into the woods.
I’ve noticed it takes about 20–30 minutes to truly allow myself to be outside.
At 20 minutes comes the voice:
“Aren’t you cold? Tired? You have so much to do and none of it can be done out here.”
This voice is strong and manipulative.
What overpowers it is not another voice but a feeling — like a friend pulling on my shirt to come play.
When I choose to move in the direction of that energy instead of back home to “be productive,” something shifts. It feels like I’ve taken off a weighted vest. My steps become sure and quick.
The confirmation that I’m going the right direction is in my body — light, easy, relieved.
Your voice, or the right direction, feels good. It feels interesting.
I never have a plan. I rarely know where I am going. But the forest responds differently when we step away from the trail and immerse ourselves in it.
Trails create an illusion of safety — even comfort. Like neural pathways deeply embedded in the brain. Sometimes (when safe and respectful), it is necessary to derail. To get off the well-beaten path and explore the uncharted land of the forest — just like in your brain.
I stop and wait so I can listen and feel — like tracking a scent in the air that didn’t exist. I was tracking the energy field.
One step. I’m off the trail. Deep snow. A steeper hillside. My boot slips on a pinecone and rolls under my foot like a rolling pin.
But it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels different. And all the while I have no idea what the point is, where I’m going, or why.
That part of my mind that needs a reason and an outcome — I’ve gotten good at turning down its volume.
The Child
I remember the child I was — and still am.
The little girl who would spend all day outside regardless of weather. Hands in the earth. A story of adventure in her heart. No desire whatsoever to go back inside.
I remember learning the difference between being inside and being out in open land and nature. No walls. No trapped air. No manufactured comforts.
Everything alive. Buzzing. Co-existing.
We would free-fall back into towering marsh reeds, making lounge chairs from wildness. Laughter overflowing our being.
When our mothers’ cries traveled to us along the wind, we knew it was time to go home — not without one more adventure.
Coming back inside always felt like hitting a wave of hot, stuffy air that clashed with the freshness of nature and imagination. My heart would ache to feel the coldness on my cheeks again.
That girl still lives here.
The Finds
On one of these walks, I felt it again.
I stopped. Reassessed. Something odd pulled me.
There I stood, feet perpendicular on a steep hillside. Behind a sleeping spruce, at its base, was a tall wooden vase.
Empty. But holding so many questions.
Who put this here? Why?
The little girl in me sat beside it. Is it a magic vessel? Should we take it home? No. This stays.
The earth was preparing for winter. Tall grasses were drying. I pulled handfuls of yellowing reeds and placed them inside the vase.
It felt right — seasonal. Collaborative.
Curiosity breeds more curiosity if we let it. It creates mystery and mystery always creates a chance to learn.
A few weeks later, in a different wood, the same pull. Again the 20-minute protest. Again I walked through the portal of mystery.
Off the trail. Deeper snow. My GPS later showed snaking circles.
In a field of white, I saw something yellow — a disced hourglass-shaped object.
Why here? In the middle of the forest?
Then another day: the bottom half of a green glass bottle beneath an evergreen. This forest is pure. No trash. Almost no sign of life. Why place this here?
I sat next to it. The quest felt complete.
The Antler
Then came the fourth.
I didn’t have much time that day.
“Go home,” the mind said.
I turned to head back and felt my body become almost sad.
Stop. That’s not right.
I turned toward a winter trail I’d never taken — perhaps only open for sledding.
In a village this small, a new trail feels miraculous.
I crossed a wooden bridge with rushing water beneath. Saw animal tracks from the night before. Trees spaced so perfectly they seemed to anticipate the winter sun.
Then I saw it.
At first, I thought it was a fallen branch frozen sharp. But no.
A perfectly structured antler.
Nearly three feet long. The points raw from carving trees, earth, competitors.
I waited until a mother and daughter passed. I pretended to stretch.
Then I stumbled down into snow above my knees, jumped a stream, and reached it.
This was coming home with me.
It felt like a prize for listening.
Walking back through the village carrying it felt ceremonial. I passed a woman sitting outside her home sunning her face.
I said in my elementary German,
“Ich finde im Wald.”
I found it in the forest.
She smiled. Surprised. Happy.
At the river, I lowered the antler into an ice-cold pool. It felt cleansing. Respectful. A quiet honoring.
I am so grateful. In awe of the power and presence within this antler.
What I Know Now
I believe these things found me.
Or perhaps — more truthfully — I tuned into them.
The treasure is always there. We simply adjust our frequency.
Listening to your voice is not choosing the loudest thought.
It is following the feeling that makes your body lighter.
It is ignoring the 20-minute protest.
It is stepping off the trail.
It is trusting the invisible tug.
It is following scent in the wind.
with love and curiosity,
Bridgette Joy
If this speaks to you, join us March 21 in Glurns, Süd Tirol for a gentle Voice Wisdom Gathering. A space to explore the voice beneath fear and expectation.
Send message to hello@bridgettejoywellness.com for more information about Voice Wisdom gathering.
