There’s Only Room for One Writer in the House

What a man once said, and how I made it untrue

There was a time—years ago—when I loved a man who said he loved me too.
He was going to school to become a writer.
I supported him completely.

I read his drafts.
I gave him quiet space.
I believed in his voice even when he doubted it himself.

I never once imagined we were in competition.
But then one day, he looked at me and said:

“There can only be one writer in the house.”

And something in me… broke.

It didn’t break loudly.
It broke the way self-doubt does—quietly, like a hairline fracture you won’t notice until later, when you try to carry something heavy and your strength suddenly gives out.

At the time, I didn’t yet know how often the feminine voice is silenced not by strangers—
but by people we love.
By people who say they admire us—until our light grows too bright.

After he left me (for his RA, as it turned out), I learned something else.

She was a writer, too.

So the line he delivered—“There can only be one writer in the house”—wasn’t even true.
It wasn’t a philosophy.
It was a warning.
It was power dressed up as insight.
It was him saying: I need to be the one whose voice takes up space. Yours is too much for me.

They got married shortly after.
He moved on with ease.

I did not.

Because this breakup didn’t just hurt—
It felt like death.

Not the kind of death you cry about for a few days.
The kind where your nervous system collapses.
The kind where you forget how to eat.
Where your sense of self becomes so disoriented, you’re not sure if you’ll ever be whole again.

And in the ashes of all of that,
I also discovered that some of what he told me had been fiction—not the good kind.
Not the literary kind.
The kind that twists truth into manipulation and calls it love.

For a while, I believed him.
Not just about the stories—
but about me.

I believed there really was only room for one writer.
I believed that writing was his thing.
That he was the artist, and I was the supporting cast.

So I shrank.
I folded my voice into notebooks.
I called myself “helpful,” not “creative.”
I told myself that maybe I wasn’t meant to write anyway.

But something survived.

Something small but stubborn.

Something like a spark.

You have something to say, it whispered.
And you don’t need permission anymore.

It didn’t come back as confidence.
It came back as sacred rage.
As tears in the shower.
As a voice shaking its way through the first sentence after years of silence.

So now, years later, I want to tell you what I’ve come to believe:

There can be more than one writer in a house.
There can be more than one truth.
More than one voice.
More than one dream.

But some people cannot hold that.
Some people only feel big if they are standing on someone else’s silence.

He was wrong.
There is only one writer in the house now.
But not because he won.

Because I stayed.

Because I rebuilt the house.
Because I learned that writing wasn’t his territory—it was mine all along.

If you’ve ever been told your voice was too loud, too much, too complicated to love—
I want you to know:

You are not too much.
You were simply in a space that was too small for your becoming.

Build a new house.
Make it wide.
Make it wild.
Make it yours.

And when your voice rises again inside it—
let it echo.

Not because you’re trying to prove anything.

But because you are no longer willing to disappear.

Soul Whisper:

You are not here to stay quiet so someone else can feel important.
You are here to speak, to blaze, to write the truth they were afraid you’d remember.

You are not the break.
You are the return.

And you are writing it now.