Breaking the Silence, Finding the Song
Liberated from shadow, into light
“The doors to the world of the Wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door.” ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estés
Dear Reader,
Every story reclaimed from the shadows becomes a precious door into the Wild Self. Some stories arrive willingly; others resist, kicking and screaming, as this one did. Yet, like shards of a mosaic, even the hardest truths demand to be seen and shared.
This fragment is more than a tale of confinement – it’s about connection, resilience and the persistent pursuit of freedom. It tells of a liberated sheep who found her way beyond the shepherd’s reach – a journey from dependence to discovery.
I offer this story with the hope that, alongside others I’ll be sharing this year, one day they’ll form a greater whole. Like stained glass catching light, may their delicate brokenness help reveal the beauty of the soul’s transformation.
Breaking the Silence, Finding the Song
The clang of the heavy door echoed behind me, a solemn drumbeat marking the threshold of my eighteenth year. As I climbed onto the top bunk, its thin mattress sagging beneath my weight, I fixed my gaze on the cracked ceiling above. Beneath me, unseen footsteps moved in fractured rhythm, muffled voices mingling with the building's weary sighs. I was imprisoned – not just by bars and gates, but by the consequences of my choices and the shadow of regret.
By day, the prison pulsed with raw tension and grinding routine. Fights erupted in the echoing corridors, harsh words igniting like sparks in the dry air. Break time bristled with unspoken hierarchies: the bosses, the followers, the women demanding respect, and those who simply bowed their heads. Yet, amidst the chaos, flickers of sisterhood emerged – a shared cigarette passed between cells, laughter breaking the monotony, and alliances forming in whispered conversations. Each day felt suspended in time, heavy with survival, yet charged with an electric intensity – a limbo where minutes stretched and snapped.
By night, the harsh fluorescent lights dimmed, and the prison transformed. Voices emerged – unpolished, fierce, alive. Women sang, their jagged melodies weaving haunting harmonies that saturated the grey walls with defiant humanity. From my bunk, I let their music wash over me, each chorus a match struck in the dark.
Some songs were raw with mourning; others playful and rebellious, but all carried the unmistakable rhythm of survival. Each voice raised in resistance, each note breaking silence, became a fragment of the mosaic of my life – a flicker of hope in a place shadowed by despair.
Books from the prison library became my refuge – a portal to distant worlds where I could disappear unnoticed. Each page was a reprieve from confinement, each chapter a lifeline weaving hope into my days. I devoured these stories, letting their words bloom within me like wildflowers through cracked concrete.
In that stillness, however, a deeper truth stirred – one I had buried under denial. My attraction to women was undeniable, a silent presence I tried to suppress in the confined intimacy of this place. It would take twelve more years before I could hold that truth without flinching, but the seed of awakening was planted here.
When the gates finally opened, the silence outside felt thunderous. I stepped beyond them, carrying the women’s songs – a haunting rhythm etched into my soul. Though the prison walls had confined me, they had also contained a strange humanity, a collective resilience that bound us together.
The world outside felt alien, and I wondered what new music awaited me there. In many ways, I had entered a post-shepherd world, untethered from boundaries I had always known.
My release came with the weight of restitution – probation and community service in a battered wives’ home. Irony hovered over me like a shadow: growing up amid domestic violence, I now washed and ironed clothes for women fleeing battles of their own. I couldn't help but wonder what life might have been like if my own mother had chosen to escape, as these women had. Instead, she stayed, weathering storms that fractured our world and left scars I still carry.
While folding clothes, I found myself listening to the quiet strength of the women in the shelter. Their voices carried echoes of the stories I’d heard behind the prison gates. Their courage, like the tides, was both enduring and defiant. The work was humbling and grounding, my hands smoothing wrinkles as my mind wandered back to those women – their stories woven with mine into a tapestry of survival.
My journey, I realised, had been shaped not only by the shadows of my choices but by a gnawing hunger. I began stealing at twelve, ironically the week I won a school writing prize. The ache of my empty stomach outweighed the thrill of success – a stark contrast between the child driven by hunger and the poet inspired by dreams. Slipping bread under my jacket, I left the shop as my heart pounded with shame.
The act wasn’t new; I’d learned it from my mother, though the unspoken truth of her actions carried more weight than the deeds themselves. My path mirrored hers – first food, then makeup, eventually clothes. At eighteen, breaking into homes and offices, felt like a natural progression.
I was bad at it. I always got caught. A month on remand in prison finally woke me to the consequences of my actions. The day I walked out of those gates, my teenage stealing days were over. Shame etched itself deep into my skin, carrying me to a weathered fishing town far from the life I’d left behind.
There, the rhythm of the waves replaced the clang of steel doors. The salty wind carried whispers of renewal, and for the first time, I felt the fragile wings of liberation begin to unfurl. With their ebb and flow, the tides mirrored the rhythm of my own transformation – retreating into regret before rising again toward light. Each wave seemed to soften the scars of the past while quietly laying the groundwork for renewal.
Yet the women’s songs stayed with me. Their voices echoed solitude, reminding me of the strength forged in shared pain. Their raw resilience became a mirror for my own. Buried beneath layers of secrecy and remorse, I began to uncover a courage I didn’t know I possessed.
From this life I built by the sea, I see that my liberation didn’t truly begin the day I left prison. It began the morning I dared to write this story. For years, I hinted at it in poems, a shadow at the edges of the frame. But shame thrives in silence, and these words feel like a salve for old wounds.
The fragments of my life - the stolen bread, the women’s songs, the books, the ironing board and the fishing town – are no longer scattered. Each one has found its place in the mosaic, capturing light with fractured brilliance.
Over four decades later, their haunting choruses still echo through my soul. Their voices harmonise with the tides and wind – songs of survival, connection and the beauty forged in even the darkest shadows. Breaking the silence has freed me – poem by poem, story by story, song by song, transforming sorrow into light and pain into beauty.
May we all find courage in our shadows and light in our stories.
Yours in words, Deborah
Afterword
In my teenage years, rebellion shaped a chapter I’ve always shared openly with employers, clients, friends and loved ones.
Before becoming a psychotherapist, I spent several years working with high-risk juvenile offenders and younger children facing severe emotional, behavioural and social challenges. Those experiences offered valuable insight – not only into their lives but also into my own.
Yet, until now, I hadn’t felt ready to explore these stories creatively. Reclaiming them today feels like unlocking a door within the soul’s prison, allowing light to touch a place long shadowed.
On this sacred day of Beltane, a celebration of renewal and light, I also honour my own liberation. May the flames of this season ignite hope, transformation and inspire all to find their path from shadow into light. Beltane blessings to everyone.
If my words strike a chord and you feel inspired to dive deeper into my poetry or explore my essays on Jungian thought, I invite you to visit: The Liberated Sheep
Hi Deborah,
The self that claims the “kicking and screaming” aspects, her brilliant, beautiful and hurt teenage self — with such love and compassion, sings a soul led chorus of courage and acceptance for all; for the women who sang their part in a collective song of “resistance”; for all of your versions of survival — child, adolescent, adult; to know that the path to liberation is acceptance — to take the responsibility for the inner work. Helping others.
A ”wildflower through cracked concrete”, finding liberation in the solace of the sea and understanding the intergenerational sway for you, and of others. “The salty wind carried whispers of renewal ...”, a transformation with each tide, each remembering.
Yes, your story, all the women’s stories weaving your shared “tapestry of survival”; the connections through song that sustained you, and the breaking of your silence with the pen. An acceptance of self.
Indeed a “mosaic, capturing light with fractured brilliance” — YOU. 💜
Thank you Deborah, in every shared story are fragments of our own — and you are shining a light for all of us. With love. 🙏 🥰 🌊
Ah Deborah! You green witch of healing. Beltane celebrates just how far we have all come. To celebrate where we are! I too love the goddess of the moon. She walks beside me. Yet I still must walk the way.
Thank you for sharing your story. The vulnerability shakes with something beyond words. I am honoured to witness. Reading your books, I taste the spaces between your words. I hold them. I honour them. I set them free.
In your words, something is set free in my own. Maybe something arrives. Being seen. Opens up the heart of healing.
The shame thrives in silence, old wounds. The fragments -the stolen bread, the songs, the books, the ironing board and the fishing town – have become your poetry. You have become the poem. Reaching out to those with your own experiences to help them see beyond the seen. You shared your gifts for serving what was bigger than yourself.
Does the haunting ever go away? Do the ghosts become angels? Was that flicker of light in the darkness always just our own?
Breaking the silence is a journey. Maybe we are here to feel all the feelings? No bypass.
I’ve never met you, but I know who you are. As you retire, I know you will keep growing. Never alone. Keep writing. We need you. There’s something beyond skin in this world. You help us remember.
Happy Beltane, you beautiful soul.
🙏❤️