Fearne Cotton - Speak Your Truth

For Rex, Honey, Arthur and Lola.
Keep speaking your truth forever.

Its not often we think about the insides of our bodies, let alone see them in high-definition quality on a screen. I more often worry about the state of my split ends than what is going on a centimetre below my scalp in my ever-whirring brain. I spend more time thinking about getting the right bra for my postnatal boobs than about the beating heart cleverly working away directly below my B cup. Yet here I am, in a brightly lit hospital room, with a small camera down my nasal canal pointing directly at the back of my throat.

Two fleshy, quivering doors are the focal point on the screen: my first ever sighting of my very own vocal cords. The two small bands of muscle in my larynx that give me my voice. Ive had them for thirty-nine years but this is my first peek. The doctor asks me for a high Eeeeeee note, so I breathe in and then let out a husky, breathy sound which would give Marilyn Monroe a run for her money. My vocal cords are working hard to keep the escaping air contained yet something is obstructing them, hindering them from doing their job. And there it is on the screen a cyst! A tough little nugget positioned on the left-hand cord, stubbornly keeping the pair of them from shutting and giving me as much husk as Rod Stewart after a big night out.

Over Christmas 2019, my voice had slowly deteriorated. At first I thought it sounded sultry and sophisticated, but by Boxing Day it had become grating and slightly uncomfortable. After five weeks of wondering when my throat would clear so I could get back to recording my Happy Place podcast, I knew I had to take action.

Back in the hospital room, the doctor pointed out my new little friend as I stared at the screen with curiosity. Apparently cysts are common in people who do a lot of voice work, yet as theyre mostly benign theyre not studied enough to accurately know how and why they develop in the first place. An operation was mentioned after which, to my shock, I would be prescribed two weeks voice rest post operation.

On hearing this news, I felt a strange mixture of complete panic and total relief. Im not sure which extreme forced its way to the front first. The panic certainly derived from the knowledge that I, Fearne Cotton, am a control freak. How on earth was I going to control every corner of my life without a commanding voice? My mouth moving is usually the catalyst to all action. Often I speak before the thoughts have formed as I have such an insatiable need for action. I reject stagnation, push away idleness, laugh in the face of rest. Im not saying this is the right way to go about things but, after thirty-nine years, I know that this is my natural inclination. My voice leads the way, its the lieutenant motivating the troops with cadence and volume. My body and brain catch up with the shape of the words once theyre out. Without my voice I would have to free fall, trust others and LET GO. That sounded like total vulnerability to me and, to put it mildly, Im not very good at that.

And yet. Relief reared its head at the same moment, because being in control all of the time is exhausting. Even though it often feels like a coping mechanism to herd the various wild elements of my life, being a control freak requires a lot of energy. Maybe it would be interesting to let that go and let others take the reins? Maybe I would learn something, have clarity, more ideas or simply rejuvenate and gather new energy? Maybe I would learn to love letting go and allow more flow and less force into my world?

Still. TWO WEEKS of silence. Im not sure Ive managed more than two minutes of silence in my whole life. Although, on reflection, voice rest sounded slightly glamorous in an Adele-post-tour kind of way. Or perhaps I would be like Ariel, the Little Mermaid, with her voice wickedly stolen from her as she wobbled on freshly gifted legs towards her Prince Charming. Either way, I could see the plus side.

Two weeks though: it would be an eternity. Talking is what I do. Its one of the only things I do. In that moment, I realised how defined I am by my voice.

I often walk into shops completely unrecognised but as soon as I open my mouth to ask where the Jiffy bags are, heads turn. My voice has become familiar to people after years of infiltrating homes, workplaces and cars while on the radio. Its more recently become a companion to others on long commutes or blustery morning jogs through my podcast series. At home, my voice is my tool to supposedly keep control of chaotic family life with screeches of Put your shoes on! and Dont balance on the arm of the sofa!

Knowing I can say my bit makes me feel safe. How would I feel without it? I didnt feel necessarily alarmed or upset at the diagnosis, just curious. Could I really manage two full weeks of silence? How would I feel without being able to express myself? And how the hell did this cyst get there?

During the cab journey home, with a runny nose thanks to the camera that had just worked its way down my nasal canal and a numb throat from the anaesthetic, I started to really get thinking about what could have caused this sizeable cyst to set up camp at the back of my throat. Im a big believer in unprocessed thoughts and traumas manifesting physically. Ive noticed this in my own life so many times over the years. Ive experienced high fevers after not processing rage properly, severe back ache during moments where I am carrying too much because I havent asked for help and feeling nauseous when I know Im sick to my stomach of certain scenarios that keep playing out. I didnt think this cyst could just be a coincidence.

Our throat canal is the channel to all of our expression. It is where thoughts turn to words and are either spoken or swallowed in fear, upset or paranoia. Its a salient and sacred part of our physical body that allows us to tell the world who we are and what we stand for.

So obviously I got my phone out and started googling. Not always the best idea after visiting a hospital but I was careful not to go on any dodgy websites and stuck to my usual alternative and slightly less fearmongering sources of information. Thanks to ten years yoga practice I know a little about the bodys chakras, or energy centres, and Ive read way too many books on spirituality, yet I felt the need to know more about this specific area of my body.

One holistic website really grabbed my attention with its theories around the throat. According to the Hindu tradition of Tantra, the throat chakra, situated at the base of the throat, is white in colour with sixteen purple petals unfurling from its centre. It is the part of the body that is associated with self-expression and creativity. Excessive stress, namely fear of speaking out, affects this chakra greatly and can block its energy. Is this what had perhaps happened to me?

I take great pleasure in speaking. Ive used my voice to put questions to some of the worlds greatest minds, interesting people and leaders. Ive conversed with Stephen Fry on mental health, posed questions on feminism to US Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, Ive discussed motherhood with Jada Pinkett Smith. Ive travelled to parts of the world where language barriers get in the way but still managed to piece together short moments of verbal exchange to forge beautiful connections in African slums and with saint-like charity workers helping with the malaria crisis. Ive soothed my children by whispering gentle stories in their ear as they struggle to sleep, Ive shouted loudly to break the cacophony of noise when my kids are fighting with each other. Ive used my voice to gingerly ask for a phone number on a sweltering Ibiza evening, enveloped in dance music and swimming in vodka, which led to marriage and two children and two stepchildren. Ive sung loudly in the car with the windows down when life felt sweet and bouncy. Ive screamed and shouted when the tension of life needed an escape from my body. Ive told many people I love them. Ive told people Ill help. But have I always been honest? Have I always spoken my truth?