For a long time, he believed every voice in his mind was telling the truth. The ones that whispered he was not enough. The ones that reminded him of every failure, every fear, every part of himself he could not quiet. They followed him so closely that, eventually, he stopped questioning them. He thought they were his thoughts. His nature. His truth. But some voices are not born within us. They are gathered over time — from pain, from memory, from the weight of being seen and misunderstood. And sometimes healing begins the moment we ask: What if not every voice I carry belongs to me?