I didn’t lose my voice in a moment I spent a lifetime yelling it away.

I was raised in a family where yelling wasn’t just common, it was the language of survival.
Whether we were arguing or cracking “yo momma” jokes with cousins, everything came out loud.

We shouted to be heard.

Shouted to prove points.

Shouted because silence felt like weakness.

And for me? I had a lot to prove.
I spent years defending myself, trying not to get steamrolled, trying to make sure somebody—anybody—heard me.

The Day the Trauma Yelled Back

Fast forward. I’m divorced now. My second born is dating a young man who… well, let’s just say he disrespected every home he walked into. At the time, I thought it was alpha male energy. But what I didn’t know was that I was about to go toe-to-toe with a trauma just as loud and bruised as mine.

They were arguing in my house one day, and I tried to step in.
That boy turned on me like a cornered wolf—and my trauma rose up to meet his.
We went head to egghead. Yelling. Shouting. For days.

When it was all over, I had no voice.
Not metaphorically—literally.

I couldn’t talk without straining, gasping for air just to whisper.
It lasted a month.

Diagnosis: A Silenced Truth

Eventually, I went to the doctor.
They stuck a tube down my nose and into my throat (I wouldn’t recommend it).
The result?

A cyst on my vocal cords—damage from years of overuse.

Not from singing.
Not from public speaking.
But from yelling.

They said preachers and singers get it.
Turns out, so do traumatized little girls who grew up yelling to survive.

And then it hit me:
My mom always sounded hoarse.
My oldest daughter—also raised in the yelling—had issues too. This thing ran deep

The Silence That Healed Me

Surgery was required.
And after it? I wasn’t allowed to talk for five days.

Not even whisper.
Not even hum.
Not even amen.

But I felt good—so I still went to Bible study. Small group. Woman’s home. I sat quietly, grateful just to be there.

The speaker began closing out in prayer.
And she said: “Yell your praise to God! SHOUT to Him!”

I stayed seated. Whispering my gratitude to heaven.

She noticed.
She walked over and leaned down into my ear:

And then it happened

“God said for you to shout to Him! If you want what He’s got, you’re gonna have to shout your praise!”

And I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry.
She meant well, I knew. But that kind of faith had nearly silenced me for good.

I smiled.

I leaned close and whispered back—against doctor’s orders—

“There is no way He told you that. He knows I just had surgery on my vocal cords.”

Then I leaned back.
Smiled again.
Patted her shoulder.
And let her walk away.

Because listen:
People need to stop lying on God.
He doesn’t shout when I’m broken.
He doesn’t demand noise when what I need is stillness.

🌱 Pause & Unfold

What are the ways my voice has been misused or silenced—by me, by others, or even in spiritual spaces?

God met me in a whisper that day. Not because I couldn’t yell—
But because I finally didn’t need to.