Why I’m Not Silent

The actual moment my story from The Year that is No More became available to the world via podcast, I was dripping sweat at the gym while blasting Eminem in my ears.

Just before that, though, I had been on my piano playing a Chopin Etude I’d been assigned my very first year in college, as a wide-eyed homeschooler walking into classrooms for the first time since elementary school.  (Opus. 10 no. 3 for any nerds curious.)  It was a scary piece for me.  Despite being encouraged in music my entire life and told I was a natural, I believed internal lies that said I was “faking it.”  I had zero idea how I’d measure up in any way to the groups of strangers my age who didn’t talk like they spent summers reading books or watching black and white movies. (My piano teacher would laugh at that now because of a comment I made about it while facing each other from across two grand pianos.)

After the gym, I went to bed with the Etude on repeat.

When I play it, I can’t help but get lost in the stark contrasts of who I was during those hundreds of hours spent learning and refining it, and who I am now… Mentally wandering through big, landmark memories of discovery, adventure, victories, and fears.

I remember being thoroughly convinced of my incapability, frustrated to the point of tears when my music teachers wouldn’t believe my arguments.  What an injustice.  I remember my piano instructor taking me so far beyond what I thought a piece could possibly require from a pianist’s hands and brain.  Just when I thought I’d pulled everything I could from a single passage, she’d tell me I was cutting a note short and to let it breathe.  Not on the next repeat, though.  Only when that phrase appears on page 3.

You have all these moving parts – literally every digit is moving – but don’t ever allow fingers 2 and 5 to physically lift from the keys while playing because those notes are “tied.”  (You will get caught.)  Simply switch between keys without allowing air to pass through their surface and your fingertips.  It’s easy! Air is huge.  It’ll never fit.

Both hands have independent melodies that you must differentiate between, so listeners can hear each one “sing.”  (I remember that word so well.)  “Make it sing!”  Carry that note with finger 2, not 3!  Tap it differently and it will sound better.  (Sounded exactly the same, but I will remember to flail differently right here if it pleases you.)

Please God, if you have any mercy don’t let her catch the pianissimo she overlooked.

I remember finally mastering it.  My brain hurt and I wondered if I’d found its capacity when I was informed that it was now time to change the physical look of my hands while they were doing the impossible.  They looked too… “harsh.”  I would also have to memorize the entire piece well enough to not freeze and draw a blank in front of crowds.  Enough to “let go and be free.  Enjoy it.”

Certainly.  Already banking on it.

It wasn’t until my vocal instructor countered my argument of the day with a phrase that rang in my ears for years to follow: “You need to get over yourself.”

In addition to believing lies about myself, I believe my fear of failure was rooted in pride.  I was told once by someone who was praying for me that she saw me living behind a fence.  It was very beautiful, covered in blossoming vines and beautiful flowers, but it was a wall.

Pride is a false protector.  It’s insidious and the cost is incredibly high.  I’ve seen it reap destruction and keep people captive from chasing their potential.  It costs relationships.  It says, “You’re safe here.  Nothing will hurt you.  They won’t see the truth of who you really are or aren’t.”  I’ve gone through seasons of counseling twice now.  The first round back in 2015 started with breaking down my fences, telling myself the truth, and exploring what’s on the other side.

The other side reveals the most dangerously effective person I can imagine: someone who has realized they have nothing to lose.

Jesus said that whoever loses their life for His sake will find it.  He also called people out and shocked a culture by giving women a voice. I gave up rights to my “story” when I gave it to Him.  (I realize not everyone reading this shares my beliefs.  However, this is my playground and I’m honored to have your eyes as guests for a few moments.)  I believe the story from The Year that is No More is not my own.  Why?  I know all too well that I couldn’t have rescued myself.  I know where my heart was.  Eight days out, I was ready to move forward at full speed, thinking a wedding was the answer to serious problems.  When my community (called a “bubble” by someone) felt something was wrong and told me to be praying with them, I didn’t know what else to do but get on my knees alone that Friday night and read the Names of God out loud.  It was the most confusing night of my life, but I felt a strange peace and clearly heard in my heart “Sunday will be pivotal.”  I was so emotionally invested in moving forward that I assumed that meant everyone would understand and all would be well.  We would have this wedding.  I went about my bachelorette party the next day ready to have fun, with no idea that Sunday held the exposure of massive lies.  (Many of which I’m still figuring out a year later.)  It was a miraculous instance of God opening the eyes of one of His own who’d been deceived into choosing a dangerous situation.

So when people tell me I am brave to share my story, I’m realizing I don’t feel “brave” at all because it doesn’t feel like “mine.”  It’s His story of jealousy, of the lengths He’ll go to leave the 99 for one.  It happens to have twists that make for great listening, which only gets it to more ears that might need to hear it.  (I thank God for my li’l bubble community all the time, by the way.)

I have nothing to lose by sharing His story but maybe some pride, which I have to kill.  Nothing to fear, because fear can’t coexist with perfect Love.  Love is what rescued me.  What would life look like if we didn’t think so highly of ourselves that the possibility of failure (more like a guarantee at some point) wasn’t so unthinkable?  What if exposure isn’t such a bad thing?

Not just for us, but for those that hear our testimonies, I think it looks like freedom.