Raspberry Iced M

I am a proponent of accountability…now more than ever.

I used to defend my choices. But now I believe in admitting when I’m wrong. Making amends when possible. Accepting consequences. Changing behavior. Looking differently at the parts of myself I’d rather not see.

But somewhere along the way, I think I confused accountability with punishment.

I thought that if I truly understood the gravity of something I had done, I should feel terrible about myself.

And if I ever stopped feeling terrible – or at least stopped feeling terrible before everyone I’d hurt was okay – then that meant I wasn’t sorry anymore.

So shame learned to put on a very convincing disguise. It started sounding responsible. Mature. Self-aware. Even humble.

But there is a difference between, “I did something wrong,” and, “There is something fundamentally wrong with me.”

One leads somewhere. And the other keeps you on trial.

And after one year of careful self-examination, I am able to share how I have learned to tell the difference.

1. Shame says, “You need to keep thinking about it.” Accountability wants to know what happened, what part I played, what I need to learn, and what needs to change. Shame asks those same questions…about 4,700 times. It convinces me that if I keep replaying something, eventually I’ll think about it “correctly enough” to undo it. But at some point reflection stops producing insight and starts producing suffering. Accountability learns from the past. Shame keeps reopening the case.
2. Shame tells me that feeling better means I don’t care. If I have hurt someone, part of me tends to believe I should not be allowed to have peace. Because they’re still hurt. Because there were consequences. Because I can’t undo what happened. So if I laugh…if I have a good day…if I stop thinking about it for a little while, guilt pops up like, “Wow, I guess it didn’t matter that much after all.” But misery is not restitution. My suffering does not automatically heal someone else’s suffering. Accountability asks for change. Shame asks me to keep hurting.
3. Shame turns behavior into identity. Accountability can admit that I lied or acted selfishly or betrayed someone’s trust or handled something terribly. But shame turns verbs into nouns. I am a liar, I am selfish, I am a failure. Accountability describes what I do accurately enough that I can change it, but shame decides that the mistakes I’ve made are the final definition of who I am. Accountability leaves room for transformation. Shame hands down a life sentence.
4. Shame thinks self-compassion is making excuses. This one has been hard for me. I can extend compassion to almost anyone else while still believing they need to take responsibility. I understand that other people can be both wounded and responsible…scared and responsible…immature and responsible…operating from unhealthy coping mechanisms and responsible. But when it’s me, any context feels suspiciously like an excuse. Accountability lets me know that there was a reason, but I was still responsible. Shame tells me that if a reason exists at all, it’s just an excuse…almost permission…to hurt people.
5. Shame believes consequences are proof that I deserve to suffer forever. I have been sitting in consequences of my decisions for a year. Trust may not return. Relationships may end. I may never be forgiven. Some people may never believe I’ve changed. Accountability says, “I understand that my actions have consequences, and I do not get to dictate when or whether another person moves past them.” Shame adds, “…and therefore, I am not allowed to move forward either.”
6. Shame demands that everyone believe I’ve changed. I’ve admitted to my mistakes. I’ve apologized. I’m doing things differently. So why can’t other people see that? Well, accountability doesn’t come with a public relations campaign. Changed behavior is my responsibility. Recognition of that change is not. Other people are allowed to need time, to remain cautious, and to never change their opinion of me. That hurts, but emotional growth means learning to tolerate it. Accountability changes because change is the right thing. Shame desperately needs witnesses to prove it isn’t shameful anymore.
7. Shame makes me confess the same thing over and over. There is a difference between honesty and repeatedly placing myself in the defendant’s chair. Sometimes I’ve already acknowledged something and apologized and prayed about it and changed the behavior. And yet something in me still wants to drag the file back out and remind myself of the terrible things I’ve done. And at some point, repeatedly confessing something isn’t producing accountability. Accountability owns the truth. Shame believes I must continue to bleed to prove I haven’t forgotten.
8. Shame refuses to count growth as evidence. Shame loves historical evidence. It keeps receipts. It has screenshots. It apparently maintains an extensive archive with color-coded tabs. But it isn’t interested in present day evidence. Accountability considers the whole record. Shame focuses on the past.
9. Shame thinks that forgiving myself means I am letting myself off the hook. For a long time, self-forgiveness sounded suspiciously like, “Eh. Whatever. Everybody makes mistakes.” And that’s not what I want. I don’t want to minimize harm or rewrite history or excuse things I genuinely regret. But I also don’t think lifelong self-hatred is the price of remorse. Forgiving myself means accepting that I cannot go backward and become the person I wish I had been. I can only become the person I want to be…now. Accountability knows I can’t change what I did, but I can be responsible for what I do next. Shame likes to remind me that I don’t deserve a “next.”
10. Shame has no finish line. And this is probably the clearest difference. Accountability has somewhere to go. Acknowledge, apologize, repair what I can, accept what I can’t, learn, change, do differently next time. But shame has not destination. No amount of remorse satisfies it. No number of tears, no length of time, no improved behavior, no apology eloquent enough, no punishment severe enough. The goalpost just moves itself. And that’s how I know shame can’t be my moral compass…because a good moral compass would eventually point me to better behavior…not just pointing backward forever.

So how do I know which one I am doing?

I’m learning to ask myself a few questions:

Is this thought showing me something I need to change—or merely telling me I’m terrible?

Is there an action I need to take?

Have I already taken it?

Am I learning something new, or am I rehearsing something I already know?

Is this making me more honest, loving, responsible, and trustworthy?

Or is it simply making me hate myself?

Because self-hatred can feel like accountability.

It can feel appropriately severe.

It can even feel righteous.

But hating myself has never made me particularly good at loving other people.

Accountability requires hope. It requires believing that my choices matter because I can make different ones. That character can be rebuilt. That patterns can be broken. That repentance means turning – not sitting forever beside the place where I fell. And as a person of faith, I can’t reconcile the idea of repentance with the idea that I am supposed to spend the rest of my life spiritually flogging myself. Conviction says that something needs to change and points me in the right direction. Condemnation is hopeless…it resolves to the fact that my bad choices are who I am and I might as well stay there.

I believe accountability is necessary. I want people in my life who will tell me the truth. I want enough humility to listen. I want to apologize when I am wrong. I want to accept consequences without making myself the victim of them. I want my changed behavior to mean more than my promises.

But I am beginning to understand that I don’t have to hate myself to prove that I am sorry. I don’t have to remain miserable to prove I understand. I don’t have to reject His grace to prove that I take sin seriously. I can say I did a thing, that it was wrong, that it hurt people, that I wish I hadn’t done it, that I cannot undo it, that I am responsible for learning from it…and that I am still allowed to become someone different.

If you want to find me on any ordinary day, there is a good chance I’d be in my living room.

I work there. Write there. Plan there. Read, pray, watch t.v., nap, drink coffee, talk to my family, snuggle the dogs there.

And I cry there.

A lot has happened inside that room that nobody would ever know just by looking. My living room is one of the safest places in the world to me.

But there are two sides to that safety. Because my living room has been both a sanctuary…and a hiding place.

There is a particular feeling that comes over me when I’m home. The door closes and the world outside gets quiet. Nobody expects small talk. I don’t have to perform or explain myself or wonder how I’m being perceived. I can just…be. In my pajamas at inappropriate hours. Hair piled on top of my head. Barefoot. Wrapped in a blanket. Laptop open. Journal nearby. Dogs curled up at my feet.

It’s where my nervous system takes a deep rhetorical breath.

It’s okay now. We’re home.

So much of my life exists in this room. Goals written, budgets made, blog posts prepared, journal pages created, trips researched, task lists checked off, Bible chapters studied, decisions pondered. And there have been ordinary afternoons when I’ve sat on the couch dreaming about the woman I want to become and then tried to figure out what she would do next.

Some people have an office. I have a couch.

Some of my most honest prayers have happened on said couch. Not in a church building. No polished words or eloquent theology. Just a conversation with Jesus. Grateful, confused, angry, desperate, repentant. So the living room is a living room. But it’s also an altar.

It’s where I’ve fallen apart. My living room knows things about me.

It knows how long I can start into absolutely nothing when my brain is in overdrive. It knows the difference between “I’m tired” and “I don’t want to get off this couch because today feels so heavy.” It has watched me cry until my head hurt. It has watched me question everything. It has watched me hold grief that I don’t know what to do with.

And somehow, the same room where I’ve fallen apart has also become the place where I slowly put myself back together.

But safe places can become hiding places if we are not careful. I love being at home. I love solitude. Quiet restores me.

But sometimes I wonder where introversion ends and fear begins. There are times when I’ve strapped myself to the couch because I needed rest. And there are times when I’ve stayed home because the world felt safer if I wasn’t directly involved.

No rejection happens when you don’t reach out. No awkwardness happens when you don’t go. Nobody misunderstands all the things you don’t say. Nobody can decide they don’t like you if you never give them an opportunity to know you.

The walls that protect me here can also make my world very small. That’s the uncomfortable side of safety. Protection becomes isolation so gradually that you don’t notice the difference.

I overthink in this room. I have conducted entire investigations from here. Analyzed text messages. Replayed conversations. Examined tone. Assigned meaning to silence. Constructed hypothetical future scenarios. Argued with people who weren’t even present. Prepared responses to conversations that probably will never happen. Reached conclusions. Reconsidered those conclusions. And then occasionally discovered that none of it meant anything.

My living room is peaceful, but sometimes my brain doesn’t get the memo.

I have sat in this room and thought I am proud of the woman I am becoming.

And I’ve sat in this room and thought I don’t know how anyone could love me.

Sometimes on the same day.

I have looked at my growth and felt hopeful. I’ve looked at my past and felt ashamed. I’ve believed God is changing me. And I’ve wondered if I’m even capable of change. I’ve extended grace to myself, and then withdrawn minutes later.

There are days when I can look at myself with compassion and see a complicated human being who has made mistakes, learned painful lessons, loved imperfectly, failed, repented, grown, and kept going.

And then there are days when all I can see are the mistakes, what they’ve cost me, and what my past means about the person I am now.

My living room has held both women – the one learning to accept herself…and the one still trying to decide if she deserves to be accepted.

And maybe that’s why this room means so much to me. It isn’t beautiful simply because I’ve got pictures on the walls. This room has been witness to my ordinary life. And it’s held me through seasons when I didn’t particularly know how to hold myself.

I don’t want to stop loving my living room. I will probably never be the type of person who needs constant noise and activity. I love the quiet life I’ve built.

But safety should restore me enough to live…not protect me from living.

I want this room to be a place I return to…not the place I refuse to leave. I want solitude to replenish me rather than isolate me. I want quiet to help me hear God rather than give my fears a microphone. I want rest to prepare me for life rather than become my way of avoiding it.

I’m still learning where that line is.

My living room is my safe place…

…and it’s also where I hide sometimes.

It feels like mine. It’s holds contradiction.

And maybe the goal isn’t to choose one side and pretend the other doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s to become aware of which one I’m doing…

To know when I’m resting and when I’m retreating. When I’m processing and when I’m spiraling. To know when the closed door is giving me peace and when it’s keeping life out.

I hope my living room always feels safe. I hope I always have a place where I can close the door, curl up on the couch, talk to God, gather my thoughts, and come back to myself.

But I also hope I remember why safe places are important. They aren’t supposed to become places where we hide from our lives. They’re supposed to become places from which we find the courage to go live them.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a great planner. But I am not an expert at application.

The gratification I get from doing the research, from creating the task list, from discussing said plans…

It’s Dopamine Central.

But when it comes to application…or execution of said plans…I freeze.

I can’t figure out if my anxiety takes over, leaving me terrified of failing at applying what I know…or if I’m lazy or too stubborn to put a plan into practice…or if I have the mental capacity – but lack the physical capacity – to see something through.

And this concept is relevant in many areas of my life. Not just tasks/to-do lists. But also to more abstract things like boundaries. Masking. Forgiveness.

And apologies.

I am a deep feeler. I’m an incredibly empathetic person. And that’s not always a good thing. Because while that empathy subsequently makes me compassionate, it also prompts me to take on problems that are not mine, which makes my load very heavy, which, in turn, makes me very resentful…erroneously resentful…for trying to handle something no one gave me intentionally.

And a good example of that is in the way I apologize.

I believe in apologies. Real ones. The kind that are not attached to excuses. The kind that admit, “I was wrong. I hurt you. I should’ve handled that differently.“

I’ve needed to make plenty of those. And I probably always will.

But apologizing for everything is not actually humble.

Sometimes over-apologizing is rooted in fear of abandonment, in people pleasing, and in managing in how we are perceived.

And in a world I once mistook as black and white, the gray area I couldn’t see before was that accountability for my part does not mean accountability for all parts.

1. I won’t apologize for having feelings. My feelings aren’t always facts. And they don’t always require action. But they are still real. To me. So while I am responsible for how I express them, I won’t apologize for experiencing them in the first place. Being hurt doesn’t make me dramatic. Feeling disappointed doesn’t make me ungrateful. And feeling angry doesn’t automatically make me wrong. My responsibility lies in what I do with the feeling, not in having the feeling.
2. I won’t apologize for needing time to think. Because I don’t always have an immediate answer, and I am in a season where I pray for clarity before making decisions. So at times I need space. I need to sleep on it. I need to separate what I actually think from what I feel in the moment. That’s not avoidance. In fact, it’s often the thing that keeps me from saying something I’ll regret later.
3. I won’t apologize for saying no. I am allowed to decline an invitation, a request, a conversation, a task that was never mine. And I don’t have to follow up my “nos” with five-paragraph explanations. The level of disappointment that I have caused other people because of my behavior is regretful – and the guilt I feel for it and the sentence I have handed myself because of it – it’s real and it’s raw and I am sitting in the consequences of that behavior today. So when someone asks me to do something, my instinct is to always say yes, as if the disappointment they feel about my past will somehow be offset or canceled by doormatting myself into submission. But that doesn’t work. So I have learned to let people be disappointed in my past…and also be disappointed because I won’t bend to their every, current whim.
4. I won’t apologize for changing my mind. I know things today that I didn’t know ten years ago, five years ago, last year, or last Tuesday. I believe changing my mind is a good thing, as it is my hope that everyone’s opinions change when new information, wisdom, and conviction require it. I wasn’t fake before. I just know better now.
5. I won’t apologize for being different than someone expected. People develop versions of us in their minds. Sometimes those versions are outdated. Sometimes they were never accurate. So I can listen – and I do – when someone tells me how my behavior affects them. And I can examine myself with honesty. But I don’t have to become the person someone else has decided would be easier for them to understand.
6. I won’t apologize for protecting what little peace I have. I don’t avoid every conversation. Sometimes peace requires having one. But sometimes conversations stop being productive. And even though it will tear me up – in private – to process an argument or a disagreement – I don’t have to perpetuate the conflict. Some things just need to end.
7. I won’t apologize for growing out of who I used to be. There are things I once tolerated that I don’t anymore. There are things I once chased that no longer interest me. And I used to behave in ways – toxic and self-protective ways – that I am trying to leave behind. And in doing so, my relationships have changed. My habits have changed. My priorities have changed. I grieve people who have walked away from me. But I don’t have to continue to be the person they think I am.
8. I won’t apologize for wanting a quiet life. I don’t need constant excitement anymore. Or a packed calendar. I don’t need to be everywhere. Most days, I just want to stay home. The Me of 15 years ago would be horrified.
9. I won’t apologize for taking my faith seriously. For a very long time, I strayed from what I knew was right just to satisfy my need for acceptance and approval…from people who aren’t even happy with themselves. In hindsight, it doesn’t make sense, even if I thought I had it all figured out at the time. My faith affects how I make decisions. How I understand right and wrong. How I think about forgiveness, repentance, grace, relationships, and the person I want to be. I’m not sorry that my convictions occasionally make me stand awkwardly outside the culture around me.
10. I won’t apologize for anything I am doing now to become someone I can respect. I’ve spent a lot of time shaping myself around what other people deem valuable. What is acceptable to society in general, or, alternatively, what someone I love prefers the most. I wanted to be chosen, understood, enough. Even if that meant being dishonest about myself. And in doing so, I created a lot of chaos, heartache, and estrangement. I don’t want to live that way anymore. I want to make decisions I can stand behind, whether anyone else agrees with them or not. I want to keep my word, tell the truth, own my mistakes, live faithfully, and love people well…even if people don’t acknowledge it or believe it or understand it or accept any changes I’m trying to make. I can’t be so bothered by the noise of judgment that I shrink anymore than I already have. People don’t have to stay. And they don’t care that it hurts me that they left. So I am not sure why I cared for so long about what they thought in the first place.

I will apologize when someone is owed an apology from me. I am mature enough and willing enough to hand out “sorries” like Jolly Ranchers. In no way have I ever been perfect, and in fact, I have spent a lot of my adult life in so much brokenness that even an apology may not encompass my remorse.

But the days of apologizing just because I was uncomfortable with someone else being uncomfortable with me? Those days are over. I think.

I will apologize for harm. Dishonesty. Selfishness, cruelty, broken promises, and careless words.

I will not apologize for having needs, for using my voice, for changing, for resting, for saying no, for not receiving the judgment people hand out at the same rate I’m expected to apologize.

Once upon a time, my values were acceptance, approval, and popularity.

Those values have changed, even if it is because my old values were pried from cold, dead hands.

And if the last year has defined anything for me, it’s a new, improved, correct set of values: Compassion. Resilience. Creativity. Generosity. And authenticity.

I aim to be someone who is quick to apologize when I am wrong…and equally unwilling to accept blame – or feel guilty – for being a whole person.

Having been in therapy for almost a year, and having been given feedback from someone more expertly qualified than me to challenge my thought processes, there are still certain thoughts I continuously entertain that do absolutely nothing to help me.

And on days when those thoughts take over, I often snowball emotionally, so that at the end of the day, I cannot readily see if I am even capable of being someone different than who others believe me to be.

These thoughts don’t solve problems or make me wiser or help me heal. They just exist – out of habit really – to consume energy and to distract me from more productive thinking.

1. What if they never see me differently? What if people never believe I’ve changed? What if they only ever always remember my worst choices? What if I put in all of this effort to become a completely different person and they still see the old version of me? The truth is that they might. And that I cannot build who I am and what I want for my life around someone else’s willingness to update their opinion.
2. What if I never become who I am trying to be? This one is tricky because it sounds productive in my head, as it is disguised as a motive for growth. But it is actually usually fear. I start measuring myself and checking progress and wondering whether I’m doing any of this fast enough, thereby turning my goal of growth into something performance based. The reality is that there is no deadline. Or finish line. There’s just a direction.
3. What if I had done things differently? I exhaust myself when I ruminate on this thought. Yes, things might be different. Maybe better. Or worse. I’ll never know. And replaying alternate timelines doesn’t change the one I’m living in now. It only keeps me emotionally attached to a life that doesn’t exist.
4. Why wasn’t I enough? This one has put me on the floor of my bathroom in a giant puddle of a depressing cocktail self-pity and self-loathing. This thought turns every rejection into a verdict, every distance into evidence, every loss into proof that there is something fundamentally wrong with who I am at my core. I know that another person’s decision does not automatically reveal my worth. I know that some relationships end and that love is complicated and that sometimes people just choose differently. I know, objectively, that endings don’t necessarily mean I’ve failed some invisible test. But in the throws and in the aftermath of this thought, I struggle to find the clarity needed to recenter myself and press ahead.
5. I should be further along by now. When considering my past, and the regrets therein, followed by the remembrance of tangible things – like my age, my career, my debt, the number of friends I don’t have…I tend to automatically attach healing and maturity to a calendar, thereby dismantling my progress altogether. And the lessons that take years and consequences and repetition are highlighted, while the things I’ve done right are forgotten almost entirely.
6. I need to figure this out right now. My brain is hard-wired for urgency. Everything must be solved, explained, defined, resolved. Immediately. It is hard for me to accept that some things become clearer only with time – that forcing an answer doesn’t create wisdom.
7. What are they thinking about me? Objectively, they’re probably not. And even if they were thinking something negative, I can’t fix that. Still, I have spent a lot of energy participating in imaginary conversations that can occur only on the inside of other people’s minds.
8. If I let this go, then it never mattered. As if I am permanently nailed to a soapbox that will only weather but never collapse. This thought keeps me attached to pain longer than necessary, like healing somehow minimizes what happened, like forgiveness equals approval, or like moving forward means I wasn’t hurt “that” badly to begin with. But letting go doesn’t erase significance – it just means that I don’t want the pain of that situation to govern what I’m trying to do now.
9. I have to fix this. I don’t, though. I can help, communicate, apologize, make a better decision. But I can’t repair every relationship or change every outcome or heal every wound or control every person involved or affected. Some things just have to be prayed over. All circumstances belong to God. Some belong to other people. And some just have to remain unfinished, despite the fact that my brain seeks closure.
10. What if this feeling never goes away? When my emotions are loud, I become convinced that my sadness and anxiety and loneliness are permanent. And the remorseful part of me is reminded that none of those feelings will ever subside because (A) I deserve to feel like this; (B) I am not worth deliverance, restoration, or redemption; and (C) I’ve used up all of the chances I’ve ever been given to make things right. On good days, I feel guilty for having joy, for being happy, for not hating myself. And on bad, highly-charged emotional days, you can find me laying on a tear soaked pillow asking the Lord to relieve me of any will to continue to live. A smart person should know that feelings move…and that the goal is to not panic just because something hurts today, while looking forward to another day when it might not hurt as bad. But when there is no sight of change, I tend to focus more on whether or not I’m doomed to melancholy imprisonment forever.

I try my hardest to remember that I don’t need every answer today. That I don’t need for everyone to be on my side. That I don’t need to try to rewrite the past so that my present means something. That I don’t need to predict the future. That living faithfully in the present is enough work for one day.

Peace cannot be only about removing stressful circumstances – because that’s not possible.

And one of the things my therapist has taught me is that we actually can’t control what thoughts enter our minds – which is a real epiphany when I consider the amount of energy I have spent in the last 40 years trying to force myself not to think certain things.

What we can control, though, is what we do with the thoughts that enter our minds. How long they get to stay, whether or not they get to “win,” how to effectively challenge them so that their volume decreases inside my head. Some of my thoughts inform me. Some argue with me. Some help me grow.

And some just suck the life out of me. I’ve already learned to identify the differences. But applying the appropriate course of action? That’s the hard part. Regardless, my attention and energy and time are all limited. And I am doing my best to not dwell on the thoughts that don’t benefit the life I want to create for myself.

There is a delicate balance that exists in everyone’s lives…

On one side of a metaphorical scale is “speaking up.” On the other, “keeping quiet.”

I’ve been different seasons of my life on both sides of that scale. And I’m still not great at knowing which option to choose in any given situation.

There have been times when I have said too much. Explained too much. Defending too radically. Responded too quickly…all in a desperate attempt to make someone understand my perspective.

And there have been other times when I have said nothing. Swallowed my feelings. Cried in private while pretending like something didn’t bother me. I’ve avoided conversations and called it “keeping the peace,” when really, I was just afraid of what might happen if I spoke.

Neither side of the scale feels particularly peaceful, though, and I’m beginning to understand why.

Peace isn’t always silence. And speaking up isn’t always conflict.

Wisdom is knowing which one the moment requires.

Silence is a powerful weapon. I have learned that not everything deserves a response. Not ever inaccurate statement needs to be corrected. Not every criticism requires a defense. Not every misunderstanding needs an explanation. And not every invitation to argue deserves as RSVP.

Sometimes silence says, “This is who I am. I don’t need to convince you. This conversation isn’t going anywhere productive. I’ve already said what needed to be said. I’m not giving this anymore of my energy.“

And there is tremendous peace in realizing that I am not obligated to attend every trial where someone else is the self-appointed judge and jury.

Sometimes the healthiest thing I can say is absolutely nothing.

But silene isn’t always peace. And this is where it gets complicated.

I’ve also used silence out of fear. I’ve kept quiet because I didn’t want someone to be angry. I’ve avoided conversations because I worried I’d be rejected. I’ve minimized my own feelings to make someone else more comfortable. I’ve apologized for things that were not my fault…simply because other things were my fault. I’ve convinced myself that a conversation “wasn’t worth it,” when the truth was that I just wasn’t brave enough to address what was bothering me.

And that? That’s not peace at all. That’s avoidance.

I have learned that there is a difference between choosing not to respond and being afraid to speak. They look identical from the outside, but inside, they feel different.

That said, speaking up isn’t always healthier either. Just because something is true doesn’t mean I have to be the one to say it. Just because I’m hurt doesn’t mean I need to announce it immediately. Just because I disagree doesn’t mean I need to try to win others to my cause. Just because someone misinterprets my actions doesn’t mean I need to launch a 6 point oral brief, complete with exhibits.

Sometimes my desire to “communicate” is actually motivated by control – controlling the way someone sees me.

And that’s been uncomfortable to sit with lately. Because there are times when I’ve said I wanted to “explain myself” when what I really wanted was to change someone’s mind. And those aren’t necessarily the same thing.

So how do I decide? How do I choose when to tip the scale toward speaking up? And when is it really best to just keep my big mouth shut?

I have spent the last year of my life questioning my own motives. My motivation behind big decisions, like what kind of car to buy…and little things, like what to wear to church.

These situations are no different. As has been typical of me for the last year, I am learning to ask myself questions before I speak.

Does something actually need to change? If a behavior is affecting my relationship, my responsibilities, my family, my values, or my ability to interact with someone in a healthy way, a conversation may be necessary.

Have I already said this? This one has saved me so much energy. If I have communicated something clearly and respectfully, then repeating it 17 different ways probably isn’t going to create understanding. If I have done my part, I’m not repeating myself.

Am I trying to communicate – or control? Do I need this person to know how I feel? Or do I need for this person to concede defeat? Those are very different goals.

Will speaking create clarity or more chaos? This question, in particular, is the one I ask myself most when coparenting. Nothing I have said in the last 5 years to my son’s dad/stepmom has been received any way except incorrectly. That’s not to say the content of my messages has always been “right,” but I’ve come to understand that anything I say and/or do will be twisted, misinterpreted, and judged. And worse, our son will be caught in the dead center of it. I’m no longer angry that this happens, because I’ll admit to misinterpreting my coparent’s choices as well. And that’s wrong. So I have pivoted by reminding myself that some conversations solve problems, while others simply give problems additional vocabulary.

What will happen if I say nothing? Sometimes the answer is, “Nothing.” And that’s freeing. Other times, the answer is, “I’ll become resentful.” If I have to continue to tolerate things I shouldn’t…and if staying quiet means a necessary boundary won’t be communicated effectively, then the relationship will suffer. That’s when silence costs more than speaking.

Sometimes peace requires an uncomfortable conversation. I think – as a general rule – the word “peace” is associated with the absence of conflict. I don’t agree with that globally accepted definition. Sometimes peace is on the other side of conflict. Sometimes it is important to say, “That hurt me. I don’t agree. This isn’t working for me. Please don’t speak to me that way. I need something to change. No.” Those conversations give me heart palpitations, as they can create temporary discomfort and awkwardness in a relationship. But avoiding them can create long-term resentment. And resentment is not peace. It’s just conflict that went underground.

I can speak without fighting. I don’t have to choose between silence and war. There is a middle ground, even if I am not always capable, yet, of seeing it.

I can be direct without being cruel. I can disagree without attacking. I can tell someone they hurt me without assigning motives to their actions. I can establish a boundary without delivering a character assessment.

I can say what I need to say…and stop. No closing argument. No supporting examples from 2007 to the present. No desperate attempt to force understanding. Just truth. Spoken with love. And then released.

And contrary to former beliefs, sometimes peace means letting someone be wrong about me. This sits heavy on my shoulders on a daily basis. Because many, many people misunderstand me. They interpret my motives incorrectly. Their version of events are very different from mine. And sometimes I just need to let that version exist…without accepting it as truth. While I do not have to agree, I realize now that correcting others’ perception is not my responsibility. I know what I said. I know what I did. And God knows my heart. I am self-aware to a near toxic degree. I can examine myself honestly, own what belongs to me, and leave the rest alone.

And the truth about all of this? I have to depend on guidance from the Lord. Because I don’t yet trust myself to decide, for myself, whether or not I need to confront or remain quiet, I pray beforehand. In obvious defining moments where this crossroads presents itself – like when coparenting or when there’s tension in my marriage – and in moments when it may not seem like the path I choose will alter my future in the slightest – like when sending a “happy birthday” text or when speaking to my hair stylist or doctor or even the cashier at the gas station down the street – I still try to pray. I pray for guidance, for the right words (if any), and that my facial expressions, language, and overall energy will reflect Him.

See, Jesus wasn’t always someone who remained silent. He also didn’t always respond. Sometimes He confronted. Sometimes He corrected. Sometimes He asked questions. Sometimes He withdrew. Sometimes He answered accusations.

And sometimes He stood before people who had already decided what they believed about him…and kept quiet.

Wisdom isn’t simply know how to speak. It’s knowing when.

There will probably always be times when I speak and later wish I’d kept my mouth shut. And there will probably always be times when I keep quiet and later regret not speaking.

But these days, I’m trying to make decisions from the same place.

Not fear or anger or pride or the desperate need to be understood, but instead, love, truth, wisdom, and peace.

Sometimes protecting my peace means walking away without a word. And sometimes it means finally saying the words I’ve been afraid to say. The goal isn’t to become a woman who never speaks up or who shrinks under discomfort, thereby marking her future as the doormat people wipe their shoes on. And it also isn’t to become a woman who addresses everything and who picks every battle, thereby earning yet another label around confrontation, aggression and toxicity.

I want to become a person who knows the difference.