This morning, I was ready to chuck my laptop out the window. Seriously—technical difficulties had me so worked up I could’ve screamed, except I was too busy wrestling with a platform that wouldn’t cooperate. I’m still shaking my head as I write this. (Side note: if you’re signed up for inbox updates, I’m so sorry for the mess of multiple links you might’ve gotten today. I know how maddening that is, and trust me, I’m right there with you—frustrated as all get out.)
Here’s the gist of it: I shelled out for X’s Premium+ subscription—$40, top tier, the works—because I wanted the perks. Unlimited access to Grok (my AI sidekick for researching topics—especially theological ones—I want to fully grasp before sharing with you), the ability to edit posts, longer character limits, better engagement tools, other research resources—you name it. I figured it’d make sharing this journey with you smoother, let me format posts the way I envisioned, and amplify what the Twin Tree Project is all about.
Instead? Glitches galore. I’d type a post, hit send—bam—straight to drafts. Links tanked; three I’d triple-checked all bombed. Images I generated wouldn’t show up in previews (though a ChatGPT one did—go figure). I couldn’t even edit the blasted post to correct it after it finally posted. It was like the universe was mocking me: “Oh, you paid for premium? Here’s a premium middle finger.”
I’m not gonna lie—I was pissed. Beyond pissed. I felt cheated. I felt like a fool. I’d invested money and a LOT of time, and every step forward came with two steps back. I’d spent all day yesterday crafting this kickoff post for Authenticity Unveiled—a piece about spiritual presence, something I’d poured my soul into, tweaking every word to hit just right. I pictured it landing on X with clean formatting, maybe a bold header, and that longer character limit letting me tease the series without cutting corners. Premium+ was supposed to make that happen—give me the edge to share it sharp and clear. Instead, it choked. The link I mentioned? I’d triple-checked it yet it bounced to a dead page, and the draft wouldn’t budge.
Worse, in that glitchy haze, I started doubting myself, questioning my own authenticity—‘Am I even cut out for this? Is this whole project a sham?’ That stung deeper than the wasted money—feeling like my authenticity, the heart of this mission, was crumbling under a stupid tech fail.” My vision for this new series—Authenticity Unveiled—was getting buried under a pile of digital garbage, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. I just had to wait on X to catch up, or just not share it outside of here, via the blog itself.
Feeling as though hours had been wasted, blood pressure spiking, all I wanted was to scream at someone, anyone, about how unfair it felt. Ever been there? Where you’re trying so hard to put something good into the world, and it’s like the world’s–maybe even God–just laughing in your face?
It all got me to thinking about this question: Would you rather always be able to speak your mind, or never speak again? Because right then, I was stuck somewhere in between— desperate to vent, and to share the post I’d worked so hard on for the blog, but silenced by a system that wouldn’t let me.
Let’s unpack this. Imagine always being able to speak your mind—no filter, no hesitation, just pure, unadulterated truth spilling out of you. Picture it: every frustration, every joy, every wild thought you’ve ever had, laid bare. This morning, if I hadn’t had a smidgen of self-control and self-regulation, that would’ve looked like me posting a rant so raw it’d make your screen blush—calling out X, the glitches, the betrayal of a premium promise. It’s tempting, right? To let it all fly, to stand in your authenticity and say, “This is me, take it or leave it.”
There’s a spiritual weight to that. Scripture says:
Let your yes be yes and your no be no. (Matthew 5:37)
This may seem irrelevant but the deeper meaning of this verse is that it is a call to clarity, to owning your voice. I wanted that today. I wanted to scream my truth until the internet fixed itself.
But here’s the flip side: truth isn’t always pretty. A couple of years ago, I let my truth fly without a net. A close friend kept dodging plans, flaking last-minute with weak excuses, and one day I’d had it. I called them out—full blast, no sugarcoat. “You’re unreliable, and it’s exhausting, and I’m DONE!” I said, voice steady, every word true. It felt good, like shedding a weight I’d carried too long. But the fallout? They didn’t speak to me for two months. I’d spoken my mind, stood in my authenticity, and it cost me. Looking back, I don’t regret it—it was real, our friendship recovered, and at the end of the day, it was the truth—but it taught me reality of how deeply truth can cut.
This morning, I could’ve done the same—unloaded on X, on you, on the whole mess—but I pulled back, remembering how that fire can burn more than it lights. If I’d spoken my mind and my momentary “full” truth this morning, I might’ve burned bridges—alienated you, my readers, or tanked my credibility with anger instead of grace. Speaking freely can liberate, but it can also wound. That’s where the Bible’s warning to us that the tongue is a weapon that can wreak havoc comes in. In James 3, verses 5-6, we’re told:
Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body.
Scripture doubles down on this. Proverbs 18:21 adds:
The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.
Philosophy and many spiritual belief systems echo this, framing the tongue as a double-edged sword, urging us to wield our words with care and mindfulness. Even when our truth is right, our spiritual presence shines through in words and actions. Sometimes that leaves scorch marks. Sometimes, it’s a pile of ashes—a loss we didn’t mean to make permanent. Would I trade peace for that kind of honesty? Some days, in full, messy human chaos, I’d say yes in a heartbeat, but…
…now, picture the opposite: never speaking again. Silence. Total, permanent quiet. At first, it feels like a nightmare—especially after today, when I was clawing to be heard. Losing my voice? That’s losing a piece of my soul. How would I connect with anyone? How could I share the Twin Tree Project’s mission—growth, authenticity, rooting deep in spirit—without words? I’d be a ghost, drifting through life, thoughts locked inside. This morning, every draft save felt like a gag order—I hated it.
But then I sat with it longer. We’ve talked about silence a lot at this blog, and I reflected on that during this moment of, “Whoa, wait a minute, what are we really doing here?” In that pause, it hit me again. Silence isn’t nothing; it’s not a void. It’s a living force—a stillness that cradles you when words fail. I thought of last fall, standing under those twin trees I’m almost certain I’ve told you about, leaves rustling soft, no need to speak. The air hummed with something bigger—God, maybe, or just the pulse of life—and I felt rooted, whole, without saying a thing.
Silence can be a refuge, a strength that doesn’t demand volume. It’s the forest at dawn: no chatter, just presence, steady and sure. Trees don’t preach; they grow, they endure, and they teach me every time. Maybe it’s where I hear the Divine clearest—when my own noise fades, and I’m left with that quiet whisper: Be still and know that I am God (Psalm 46). It’s my daily anchor, a lifeline when chaos roars. Could I live there? Let my life bloom in that hush, fingers off the keys, mouth shut, just being? Today, forced into it, I felt its power—not a gag, but a gift, a chance to listen deeper than I ever could shouting.
This question—speak your mind or stay silent—hit me hard today because it’s not just a “what if.” It’s a lens. When I was raging at X’s failures, I wanted to speak—”needed” to. But when I couldn’t, I was forced into silence, and something shifted. I started writing this, and the frustration cracked open into something else. I saw how small it was in the grand scheme—how my internal tantrum, justified as it felt, wasn’t the end of the world. You’re still here. I’m still here. The Twin Tree Project is still growing.
And that’s where gratitude slipped in, quiet as dawn. Yeah, I got screwed this morning—glitches galore, $40 tossed at tools that mocked me and didn’t deliver. But the mess cracked open lessons I didn’t expect. I was reminded that my patience is a threadbare rag—I have the ability to snap faster than I’d admit. I learned X doesn’t (seem to) give a toss about its premium promises, which stings but sharpens my eyes. I learned about me—how quickly I spiral from ‘This sucks’ to ‘I suck,’ and how that’s a lie I don’t have to buy. And God? I felt Him in the fray—not fixing the tech, but sitting with me, nudging me to breathe.
I’ve got a voice, scratched and clawing, but alive. I’ve got you, wading through this with me, and that’s gold. The Twin Tree Project—its roots, its reach—stands taller than a busted platform. Grace doesn’t wipe the irritation (X, I’m still glaring), but it paints it new—it sneaks up, and reframes things if you allow it to. I didn’t get my money’s worth, but I got more: a tussle with truth, a crap morning flipped into something real. I see now—patience isn’t my forte, but I can and do continue to grow it; trust takes hits, but it holds; and God’s in the glitches, not just the wins. From screen-smashing rage to this—a heart spilling thanks—I’m here, and that’s enough.
So, where do I land? If I had to choose—speak my mind always or never speak again—I’d pick the voice. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s me. I’d rather stumble through truth, risk the burns, and keep showing up—flaws and all—than let silence swallow me whole. But today taught me something: I don’t have to scream to be heard. None of us do. We can sit in the quiet, let it settle, and still find our way back to grace.
What about you? Would you rather always speak your mind or never speak again? There’s no right answer—just your answer. And whatever it is, it’s a window into who you are, right now, in this moment. Frustration can lead you there, if you let it. It did for me today—from wanting to smash my screen to typing this with a heart full of thanks.
The Twin Tree Project 