Unmuted

 Disclaimer: This post is my story—told through my voice, shaped by my experiences. It’s not meant to be a universal statement, a theological debate, or a request for approval. If it resonates, I’m glad. If it challenges you, sit with that. But just know: this isn’t up for debate. It’s a reflection, not a courtroom. And for once, I’m not editing myself to make it easier for anyone else to read.

Prologue: Learning to Speak in My Own Voice

I used to think I had a voice—because I could speak. Because I could follow the script handed to me. Because I could say the “right” things at the “right” time in the “right” tone. But what I’ve learned is that having a voice isn’t about volume or vocabulary. It’s about ownership.

This blog isn’t just about finding my voice—it’s about reclaiming it from the people and systems that told me it was never really mine. For most of my life, I said what I was told to say. I echoed beliefs I was handed. I conformed out of fear, obligation, and survival. But the truth? That version of me wasn’t me—it was a muted, carefully edited projection designed to keep other people comfortable.

Using my voice now feels both exhilarating and terrifying. I stumble. I doubt myself. Sometimes I still hear the echoes of those old scripts telling me to sit down, be quiet, stay small. But I write this because I won’t stay small anymore.

This blog is messy. It’s vulnerable. It’s honest. It’s a marker in the journey of a woman who is learning—sometimes awkwardly, sometimes boldly—that her voice matters. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s hers.

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Section One: The Weight of Silence

I don’t know if there was a single defining moment when I realized my voice had been taken from me—but maybe it was the first time I wore shorts and wasn’t struck down on the spot. That might sound silly to some, but in the religion I was raised in—even as a cis-presenting male—shorts were a big no-no. That moment planted a seed: maybe all these rules weren’t divine law… maybe they were just control dressed up in scripture.

But the realization hit harder more recently, when I started questioning the things I’d been taught all my life. I wasn’t trying to be rebellious—I just wanted clarity. I asked honest questions, and the people who claimed to have all the answers suddenly couldn’t give me a straight one. That’s when it clicked: they didn’t want me to have a voice. They wanted me to recite, not reflect.

I was never outright told that my voice didn’t matter—but the message was always clear: “This is how we believe, and this is how you will believe.” As a child, I wasn’t allowed to speak my thoughts or opinions in the presence of adults. I respected my elders by staying silent. That doctrine burrowed deep, and I carried it into adulthood without even realizing it—into work, into relationships, into the version of life I thought I was supposed to live.

I spent years obeying, towing the line, and performing the role of the “head of household”—like the Bible told me I was supposed to. But now I see: that wasn’t leadership. That wasn’t respect. That was silence in disguise.

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Section Two: The Awakening

If I’m honest, I think my voice started whispering to me years ago—maybe even decades. But every time it tried to rise to the surface, I shoved it back down. I convinced myself it couldn’t be right. It wasn’t part of the rules. It didn’t fit the mold. And I had spent my entire life trying to be the mold.

But now? Now my voice doesn’t just whisper—it speaks. Sometimes shakily. Sometimes boldly. But always truthfully. I say what I mean. I mean what I say. And maybe the biggest surprise is that, in finding my voice, I’ve also found kindness. Not just for others—but for myself. I’ve become softer in the right places, and sharper where it counts. I’ve let go of the rigid judgment that was drilled into me and replaced it with compassion. Except—of course—for the things that demand a firm line: racism, homophobia, transphobia, and bigotry of any kind. My voice doesn’t stay quiet in the face of hate.

Silence is complicity. And if you won’t speak up against oppression, discrimination, and violence—then you’re saying you’re okay with it. And I’m not.

The most terrifying thing I’ve ever said out loud was, “I’m trans.” It was simple. Just two words. But they carried the weight of a thousand fears. Saying it out loud—owning it—meant risking everything. And in some ways, I lost more than I ever expected. Family. Friends. People who claimed to love me, but had very strict conditions on how that love would show up… or disappear.

But what I gained? My truth. And my truth is worth every ounce of courage it took to speak it.

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Section Three: The Fear Factor

Oh man… the fears don’t vanish just because I’ve found my voice. They linger. They whisper. They show up every time I sit with a hard truth and wonder if I should hit “post” or press “send.” Should I say this? What if it offends someone? What if they misunderstand me? What if they stop liking me? What if, what if, what if…

It sucks. It really does. Because even now, after everything, I sometimes catch myself thinking it might just be easier to shrink again—to go back to the quiet, to the script, to the “safe” version of me. But deep down, I know that’s not living. That’s hiding.

I still censor myself sometimes. I second-guess my words. I hesitate before I speak, or before I publish a blog post, wondering if it’s too much. But then I remember: if I don’t tell my truth, how will anyone else know they’re allowed to tell theirs?

As for who I’m afraid might hear me? That’s still easy—my parents. Even though they’ve made it painfully clear they don’t want to see me, there’s still that buried hope that they might… someday. They’ve sent a few texts lately that seem to contradict their actions, but they haven’t acknowledged the boundaries I laid out. And that silence? It still stings. It still makes me hesitate. Because if your own parents can reject your voice, it makes you wonder who else might.

But I speak anyway. Even when it’s scary. Because my silence doesn’t protect me—it only erases me.

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Section Four: The Power and the Practice

The biggest surprise about finding my voice? That I have one at all. After everything I went through—after all the ways I was silenced, minimized, and erased—I’m honestly shocked there was anything left to speak from. But there was. And there is.

What’s surprised me even more has been the people who’ve shown up with love, support, and encouragement. People I never expected have reached out just to say they’re proud of me. That I’m brave. That I inspire them. And while that’s beautiful to hear, I’ll be honest: it doesn’t always feel brave. It doesn’t always feel inspiring. Some days, it just feels heavy. Some days, all I can feel is the weight of what I let hold me back for so long.

And of course, not all the responses have been kind. The criticism, the judgment, the subtle digs—those still come. Usually from people tied to my old life—my old cult (let’s be real, that religion had way too many strings). And sometimes from people who shouldn’t even have a seat at the table, let alone a say in my voice.

But here’s what I know now: my voice is powerful. Not just for me—but for others. It empowers me to stand up for those who are still silent. To give hope to those who are still searching. To breathe life into truths others are still too afraid to say out loud.

I’m finally surrounded by people who value honesty. People who speak truth even when it costs them. That’s the kind of community I want to be part of. That’s the kind of woman I want to be.

And yes, it’s exhausting sometimes. Helping others who are still stuck in that mindset—the one I barely escaped from—can be mentally, emotionally, and spiritually draining. Especially when they ask for help but aren’t ready to move.Especially when they still cling to the same justifications that once kept mesmall.

But even on the hardest days, I’d rather be tired from telling the truth than rested from keeping it quiet.

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Section Five: The Ongoing Journey

I want my voice to stand on its own. Not propped up by anyone else’s approval. Not borrowed from anyone else’s strength. Just mine. I want it to be solid—unapologetic and rooted. Even if it shakes, even if it cracks, I want it to be mine.

If someone is reading this and feels afraid to speak up, I hope they walk away with a little more hope than they came in with. I hope they feel a spark of inspiration, a flicker of courage, a glimmer of what could be. Because your voice doesn’t have to be loud to matter. It just has to be yours.

And for me? I think the best way I can honor my voice—especially on the days when fear tries to shout louder than truth—is to just keep speaking. Whether it’s out loud, in writing, or silently in my own head. Because let’s be honest… sometimes the loudest battlefield is the one in my own mind. And even there, my voice deserves to win.

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If you’re still quiet, still afraid, still waiting—I see you. And when you’re ready, your voice will be there too.