Learning to listen again

Part four of a quiet series I’m sharing — letters that tell the truth of where I’ve been, and how I found my way through

At some point, after enough stillness, something started to shift.

It wasn’t sudden. No big insight. No revelation. Just a quiet sense that I could hear myself again — faintly, like a far-off voice on a still day.

It was strange at first. I’d spent so many years knowing — what to do, where to go, who to call, how to respond. My instincts had been sharpened by necessity. There was no room for hesitation when my son’s life was in the balance. I had to be decisive. Strategic. Loud, if needed.

But after everything fell away — after the grief, the slowing down, the deep rest — I realised how much of that knowing had become external. Tactical. Responsive.
And how far I’d drifted from the quieter voice inside me.

I began to notice the small things.

How my body would constrict when I agreed to something out of obligation.
How I’d feel a strange hum in my chest before a “yes” that was truly aligned.
How certain conversations drained me — and others made me feel like I’d just remembered who I was.

I wasn’t “back.” There was no going back.
But I was listening.

And slowly, I began to follow that voice again.

Sometimes it spoke in words: “This isn’t yours to carry.”
Other times in sensation: a deep breath, a softening, a nudge.
Sometimes it sounded like nothing at all — just silence that felt safe, not empty.

This is how I returned to myself.

Not by setting goals. Not by forcing clarity.
But by becoming attuned to my own internal signals again.

It looked like:

• Letting ideas come to me instead of chasing them.
• Sitting on the sofa with a notebook and waiting for a question to arrive.
• Noticing what made me curious — and following that, without demanding it become productive.
• Choosing work, clients, and collaborations not by outcome — but by how they felt in my body.

It was subtle. Sometimes frustratingly so. But also liberating.

Because for the first time in years, I wasn’t reacting. I wasn’t surviving.
I was in relationship with my own inner world.

I’m sharing something special in these letters — a series of truths I’ve never told in public. Not to inspire. Not to teach. Just to speak plainly. To let you see what healing and leadership look like when they aren’t performative. When they are lived. Felt. Real.

If you’ve lost that inner voice — or if it’s there but faint — I want to say this:

It’s not gone.
It’s waiting for you.
And it speaks when you stop shouting over it.

Thanks for reading.

Love,

Rita

Ps. If you’re ready for a steadier, deeper way of leading, I offer private 1:1 thinking partnerships for leaders building what matters most. When you’re ready, the space is here. If it feels like the right time, message me and we’ll have a quiet conversation.

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