Finding My Voice Again

by Denise Scott

For years, I stopped writing. (I bet you didn’t notice). I wrote when I was forced to because I was committed to participating in another monthly online reflection and I am the absolute worst team member I think I made Val (our coordinator) go bald.  I stopped writing, not because I ran out of words, but because I ran out of courage. What exactly made me stop, I cannot say. When did I become so insecure and intimidated by something that once felt as natural as breathing? I honestly don’t know. I just remember waking up one day afraid to express my thoughts and the things in my imagination.

It wasn’t a sudden silence, but a slow fading. Each time I wrote something honest, something with even a smidgen of truth about myself, I would shrink. I’d publish an article or share a reflection and then spend the night curled up in bed, too scared to check my WhatsApp messages. I would feel naked and vulnerable.

I prayed long and hard about it; not just for inspiration to return, but for healing. Writing had once been my way of making sense of the world and myself. Losing it felt like losing a part of who I was. I could not explain it to anyone; I could not explain how difficult it was to write a few words. I could not even explain it to myself.

But God.

God in His quiet patience, waited for me to trust again; not just in my ability, but in His purpose for my words. Slowly, gently, He guided me back.

When I look back, I think I shared too much of myself with people who were not safe. People who should have been praying for me but instead used what I confided for gossip, judgement, or personal gain. The deepest wounds often come from those who sit right beside you in the pews, smiling, singing, even praying with you, while quietly wounding you with their words. That kind of betrayal cuts deep. It makes you want to close your mouth, hide your heart, and keep your truth buried where no one can twist it.

I used to think Maya Angelou’s story in Why the Caged Bird Sings of a young girl who stopped speaking because she believed her words had caused harm was a bit far-fetched and a little too dramatic. But I understand it now. Because, I, too, silenced myself, not because I didn’t have something to say, but because saying it brought me pain.

It took years of tears, journalling, prayer, and courage to find my voice again. Every time I wrote something real, I had to fight the urge to delete it or apologize for it. But with each act of honesty, I grew stronger.

Today, I write again; not from a place of fear ( I really hated disappointing Val) but of freedom. The Bible says, “Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom He has redeemed from trouble” (Psalm 107:2). Those words remind me that speaking—writing—is not just expression, it’s testimony. So, I decided to testify to you all today.

God didn’t just restore my voice; He refined it. And now that I’ve found it again, I intend to use it—boldly, honestly, and without apology. Get ready for it.