There are things I carry in silence for a very long time before I ever allow them to become words.
When God places something on my soul, my instinct is not to speak quickly. It is to stop. To wait. To test it against prayer, Scripture, time, and fear. I sit with it for weeks—often months upon months—because I know the weight of words spoken in His name. I know how easily flesh can masquerade as conviction. And I know how costly it is to speak something that will ruffle feathers, fracture comfort, and redraw lines I didn’t ask to redraw.
“Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.”
— James 1:19
I take that seriously.
I want to be honest about something that often gets misunderstood: I struggle in my walk with God. Not because of Him—but because of me. My doubts, my fears, my resistance, my humanity. Faith does not come easily or effortlessly to me, and obedience is not automatic. It is fought for. Daily.
I like being the oddball. I’ve always lived a little sideways from the world, and most of the time I wear that comfortably. But there is a difference between being the odd one out creatively or socially, and being the odd one out because you spoke when staying quiet would have kept the peace. I struggle when my “different” becomes public obedience instead of private quirk. I struggle when faith costs me approval instead of earning curiosity.
When God presses something into my spirit, my first response is not eagerness—it’s reluctance. I ask Him to confirm it. Then I ask Him again. I ask Him to take it away. I ask Him if I misunderstood. I ask Him if someone else might be better suited, less costly, less fragile, less tired.
And yet it returns.
“And the word of the Lord burned in my heart like a fire shut up in my bones; I was weary of holding it in, and I could not.”
— Jeremiah 20:9
I understand that verse more than I’d like to.
I don’t like this part of obedience. I don’t want it. I don’t feel brave doing it. Speaking up on things I know will disturb people—people I love, people I respect—costs me more than I can fully express. It drains me emotionally. It isolates me spiritually. It pulls me into a loneliness I wouldn’t choose.
This calling is not a spotlight. It is a cross.
“Then Jesus told his disciples, ‘If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.’”
— Matthew 16:24
This is mine to carry.
Even if I don’t like it.
Even if I struggle under its weight.
Even if I wish my obedience looked quieter.
I was never asked to like it.
I was asked to do it.
There is a particular ache in knowing you are being faithful and still feeling alone. Obedience does not guarantee affirmation. Sometimes it guarantees misunderstanding. Sometimes it guarantees distance. Sometimes it reveals which relationships were only sustained by your silence.
“For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God?”
— Galatians 1:10
That question corners me every time.
Not speaking—when I know God has asked me to—means choosing my own comfort over obedience. And I can’t live with that. So I speak, even when my voice shakes. I write, even when I already know how it will land.
I pray constantly that those in my inner circle know my heart—my family, my friends, and even strangers. I pray they know my love runs deeper than disagreement, and that obedience to God is not born of pride, but surrender.
This path is hard.
It is lonely.
It is heavy.
But it is Honest and God lead.
And I will keep walking it—not because I have it all together, but because I trust, God, the One who called me to it. I will keep struggling forward. I will keep choosing obedience over comfort. And when I am certain—after prayer, after wrestling, after fear—I will speak.
Even if it costs me.
Even if I stand alone.
Even if it feels like a cross pressing into my shoulders.
Because obedience, however difficult, is still better than silence that betrays the soul.
— Feral Faith Studio
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