Deborah Sickle Hill

Tag: self-awareness

  • A Demon Named They

    By: Deborah Hill LCSW (Ret.)

    I have a demon that sits on my shoulder. Its name is They.
    I didn’t realize it was there for years, but it’s been whispering to me all along—
    They won’t like that. They think you’ll fail. They said it can’t be done.
    It’s insidious, cunning, even charming. And it’s a liar.

    Perhaps, you’ve encountered this demon as well. I’ve seen it cling to friends, family, and clients. I often recognize its voice in others before I hear it in myself. It’s sneaky like that.

    The demon “They” is a master of disguise. It whispers through the voices of others:
    “You’re wrong. You’re worthless. Everyone thinks you’re a joke.”
    It can play pitcher and batter in the same game—stirring conflict, self-doubt, and shame.

    But here’s the truth: there is no demon. It’s your inner voice telling you these things, and if you are not careful, that voice will convince you to think, say, or do just about anything.

    So how do you fight back?

    1. Identify the voice within. Notice when thoughts shift, when shame creeps in, when lies feel like truth. It may have started out as someone else telling you these things, but now it’s you.
    2. Refuse to obey. You have a choice. Don’t swallow every voice that speaks.
    3. Replace the lies. Speak truth aloud. Write it on notes. Practice love toward yourself. Do it daily. Do it loudly.
    4. Choose your people. If others live by their demons, either strengthen your armor—or walk away.

    Because in the end, the demon They only wins if we forget the source.

  • Zombies Walk Among Us

    They say zombies are the living-dead—soulless husks roaming the earth in search of flesh to satisfy an unholy hunger.

    But I say zombies are the dead-living—those still breathing, still walking, yet hollowed by pain, wandering this world and beyond in search of something to quiet an unrelenting restlessness.

    We think hauntings happen only in places touched by death—houses, graveyards, battlefields.
    But hauntings happen in the mind, too.

    Some people haunt themselves.
    Others are haunted by their everyday reality.
    And then there are those whose haunting was born in unspeakable terror—one that doesn’t fade with the light, but grows stronger after dark, when the vulnerability of sleep sets in.

    This isn’t just restlessness of the body.
    It’s a soul-deep disturbance.
    It whispers at the edges of consciousness, like a ghost speaking through a medium.
    No one else sees it—only the aftershocks etched across a person’s face, voice, choices.

    It’s tempting to run.
    I’ve run.
    I’ve searched shadows, scoured dark corners, tried to flee from the thing inside me.
    But here’s the truth:

    You can’t outrun what lives in you.

    You have to face it.
    Head-on..

  • Listening to the Sounds of Nothing

    Listening to the Sounds of Nothing
    ~ Approx. 4–5 min read

    Monument Valley

    Monument Valley National Park spans the corners of Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado, and rests within the Navajo Nation. I’d never been, but something about that red earth called to me. I wasn’t interested in the usual dirt drive tourists take. I needed more. I needed connection.

    My husband and I hired a Navajo (Diné) guide and climbed into his jeep. He took us to parts of the valley off the beaten path. About two-thirds through our tour, nearly axle-deep in rich orange sand, he stopped the engine.

    “What do you hear?” he asked.

    “Nothing,” I said. I had never heard nothing before. My heart beat faster.

    “Exactly.”

    He grinned, turned the key, and we continued through the quiet, swerving toward a towering sandstone alcove. Once parked, he motioned for us to follow.

    Inside the alcove, the temperature dropped twenty degrees. He told us to lean against the stone wall, and we did. The rock was smooth, cool, grounding. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to leave.

    Again, he asked, “What do you hear?”

    This time, I heard our breathing echoing in the stillness. Then he began to sing. Words I didn’t understand in a rhythm that seeped deep into my bones. His voice reverberated across the alcove in a way that felt like a secret between the rock and my soul.

    He stopped. “Isn’t that something?”

    I couldn’t answer. My body felt full and hollow at the same time. He nodded, understanding.

    “We have to go back,” he said.

    I didn’t want to. This encounter changed me, inspired me, and saddened me as well. What did it mean?

    The Gift

    Later,we detoured to a cliffside overlook where you can view ancient dwellings carved into the stone. As I walked the path, an elderly Native woman and a teenage girl approached me. The woman held a necklace—glass beads and juniper berries with a wire dreamcatcher pendant.

    She said something I didn’t understand. The girl smiled. “It’s a gift,” she said. “From my grandmother.”

    I hesitated. Was this a tourist trap? A silent exchange of expectation?

    Maybe I looked wary because they grew more insistent. So, I took the necklace and said thank you. They both smiled, then disappeared up the path.

    After taking my photos, I returned to find a tin can on a folded blanket with a few bills and coins inside. I dropped in a twenty, unsure if I’d just honored or violated something sacred.

    And that’s the word that felt right–sacred. I felt at one with the universe, hearing something most people will never hear—nothing. And it was powerful.

    The necklace hangs on my wall, a quiet reminder that in stillness, we touch the sacred.