Yesterday, I was reminded of how loud old voices can be and how they can make you feel. I felt anger, shame, guilt, and empathy all at the same time. I saw a post on Facebook and instead of ignoring the absolute asinine take that had been posted, I engaged — mistake #1.
All I was trying to do was two simple things: #1 combat misinformation and #2 call out hypocrisy. I wasn’t rude, I wasn’t angry, I didn’t resort to personal attacks. But every time I tried to respond, the attacks got worse.
The original post came from a pastor I actually know — though I never attended his church. Honestly, I always thought he was more intelligent than what he put out there. But what he wrote was so far off the rocker for someone in his position, it stopped me in my tracks. Instead of engaging in thoughtful discussion, he threatened to “publicly embarrass me.” That’s not pastoral care — that’s intimidation. And when you add in the fact that he aligns with Christian nationalism, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, it’s a harsh reminder of how far some leaders have drifted from the compassion and humility they claim to preach.
From there it only escalated. I was called a freak, delusional, and told I’d been “turned over to a reprobate mind.” And then, in one of the lowest moves imaginable, someone I actually know tagged my mother in the post — as if we’re back in kindergarten tattling to the teacher. This person doesn’t even know me now. They only knew the mask I used to wear, the version of me I built out of fear and survival.
My mom doesn’t talk to me anyway, so what’s that supposed to do? Years ago, that would have terrified me. It would have sent me into hiding all over again. But not now. Now I have a backbone. I won’t back down because of threats and insults. Yes, I may need to retreat for a moment when the voices get loud — to gather myself and remind myself of my worth — but that’s strength, not weakness. It means I know who I am, even when they don’t.
What shook me the most wasn’t just the insults themselves, but the way they awakened old voices I thought I had quieted long ago. The words on the screen weren’t just from strangers or even acquaintances — they echoed the things I had been told for decades.
The shame voice whispered: “You’re wrong for being yourself.”
The guilt voice piled on: “You’ve disrespected your family by living authentically.”
The doubt voice gnawed: “Maybe they’re right… maybe I am the problem.”
And then there was the religious voice, the loudest of them all: “God can’t love you unless you follow the rules.”
I even remembered how pastors used verses like “Touch not thine anointed” as a weapon — twisting scripture into a gag order so no one dared to question them. Those words were never about shielding modern leaders from accountability, but that’s how they were used: to silence, to control, to keep people like me afraid of speaking up.
Yesterday, those voices roared back to life. For a while, they drowned out my worth and my trust in myself. It was like being pulled under by waves I thought I had already learned to swim through. And that’s what made the spiral so intense: it wasn’t just about yesterday’s comments — it was about years of conditioning being triggered all over again.
And before anyone tries the predictable clapback — “That’s just the Holy Spirit convicting you,” or “That’s what happens when you backslide” — let me be clear: shame, fear, and condemnation are not the voice of the Holy Spirit. Scripture itself says the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. When the voices in my head scream that I’m a freak, unworthy, or unlovable, that’s not God speaking — that’s conditioning. That’s trauma. That’s human control masquerading as holiness.
Conviction should lead to life and restoration, not terror and despair. What happened yesterday didn’t draw me closer to God — it dragged me back into the pit of religious abuse. And I refuse to call that the Holy Spirit.
Thankfully, the voices didn’t get the last word. Yesterday, they were deafening. They drowned out every ounce of self-worth and self-trust I had. But today, after a night of sleep and an emergency therapy session, I can breathe again.
Sleep gave my nervous system a reset, but therapy gave me language. My therapist reminded me that what I went through wasn’t weakness — it was my trauma being poked. She gave me a R.A.I.N. worksheet, a tool to help me when spirals hit. It walks me through four steps: Recognize what’s happening, Allow the feelings without judgment, Investigate with compassion, and Nurture myself with truth.
And here’s something I’m learning: reaching out for help is not losing. Yesterday, even while the voices were still so loud, I sent a message asking if my therapist could see me the next day. Old me would have called that defeat — proof that “they won.” But the truth is, reaching out was strength. Disengaging from a fight that only escalates isn’t giving up. It’s refusing to play their game.
That might be one of the hardest lies to break: that stepping away means you’ve lost. The reality? It means you’ve chosen yourself. You’ve chosen your peace, your safety, and your healing. And that is always a win.
When the storm quieted a little, I started to hear something deeper than the noise — truth.
The shame voice said: “You’re wrong for being yourself.”
➡️ The truth is: “I am not wrong for existing. Living authentically is strength.”
The guilt voice said: “You’ve disrespected your family by living this way.”
➡️ The truth is: “I honored them more than they ever honored me. Respect isn’t hiding — it’s honesty.”
The doubt voice said: “Maybe they’re right… maybe I am the problem.”
➡️ The truth is: “Discomfort with my truth doesn’t make me wrong. Their rejection is not my identity.”
The religious voice said: “God can’t love you unless you follow their rules.”
➡️ The truth is: “Conditional love isn’t God’s love. The God I know is bigger, kinder, and loves me fully as I am.”
These truths don’t erase the sting of the voices, but they anchor me. They remind me that their attacks are just echoes of old conditioning, not reality. And every time I choose to stand in truth — even if it means retreating for a moment to gather myself — I am reclaiming the ground they tried to take.
Yesterday reminded me that the voices can still get loud. They can still drag up shame, guilt, doubt, and fear. But today reminded me of something even more important: they don’t get the final word.
I survived the spiral. I reached for help. I found my footing again. And that means I can do it again the next time those voices rise.
If you’ve ever felt buried under the noise of old accusations, family rejection, or religious control, please hear this: those voices are not the truth. They are echoes of someone else’s fear and control. Your worth, your identity, your dignity — none of it depends on their approval.
The voices may shout, but you are stronger. You are loved. And you are not alone.
