The Things We Are Too Scared to Say Out Loud
by Annette Brummett
When I first read the October 2026 theme, “The Things We Are Too Scared to Say Out Loud,” I immediately thought about questions.
But the more I thought about it, the harder it was for me to come up with one specific question I was afraid to ask.
The truth is, I wasn’t really taught that there were certain questions I couldn’t ask. I was taught that I shouldn’t question at all.
Of course, there were plenty of questions that were perfectly acceptable. What time is it? Where are we going? What are we having for dinner?
But questions that might make someone think I wasn’t completely aligned with the belief system I had been raised in? Those were different.
It didn’t necessarily matter whether I disagreed. Sometimes I wasn’t even disagreeing. I might simply have been curious. But asking a question that suggested I was thinking differently could be enough to make me feel like I had done something wrong.
I think I learned that somewhere around second grade. I was about seven years old.
At first, when I had a question that I thought might be wrong, I would simply tuck it away. As I got older, though, something changed. I began reprimanding myself for having the question in the first place. Eventually, I didn’t need someone else to silence me. I had learned to silence myself.
I became very good at it.
I became very good at disconnecting from the parts of myself that felt unsafe, and I carried that skill with me well into midlife.
There were consequences to asking questions, or at least consequences I believed were waiting for me. I was afraid my father would discipline me. I was afraid I would be labeled rebellious or accused of causing dissension. But underneath those fears was another one that was much harder to explain.
I was afraid I would disappoint God.
That fear was probably the biggest one of all, even though it was the least tangible.
Because what happens when you believe that asking the wrong question might mean that God is disappointed in you?
You learn not to ask.
For a very long time, that was my reality.
The first little cracks in that certainty came after my mom died. I moved somewhere where I essentially knew no one except my husband and his parents. I began attending a nondenominational church that was still very much fundamentalist, but was a step or two away from what I had grown up with.
For the first time, I began to realize there were other ways of believing.
At first, the differences seemed small. People raised their hands during worship. There was a praise band instead of just a piano and organ. People had tattoos. People had piercings that weren’t just in their ears.
Those things might sound insignificant now, but they weren’t insignificant to me. They were little cracks in a worldview where I had believed there was one right way to worship, one right way to look, and one right way to behave.
And slowly, very slowly, I began to question.
It was still scary, but then something strange happened. I asked a question, got an answer, and the answer didn’t align with what I had been taught.
Nothing terrible happened.
I was still here. God hadn’t struck me down. The world hadn’t ended. I had simply discovered that there was another way of looking at something.
It reminds me of those little capsules you put in the bathtub when you’re a kid—the ones that start out tiny and slowly expand into something much bigger. I don’t even know what they were actually called, but that’s what my questions did.
One question led to another. If I could question this little thing, what did that mean for the next question? And the next? And the next?
The questions grew.
Eventually, they weren’t just questions about tattoos or worship styles. They became questions about divorce, same-sex relationships, and the things I had been taught were simply settled and not open for discussion.
Those questions were much harder because they touched morality, identity, relationships, belonging, and God.
And even then, questioning didn’t happen quickly. It happened little by little.
I think I began questioning the really big things when I left my husband after eighteen years of marriage. That experience forced me to confront some very deep ideas about what I was supposed to do, who I was supposed to be, and what I was allowed to choose for myself.
Looking back, I don’t think my healing has been about finding all the right answers. It has been about finally understanding that I am allowed to ask the questions.
I now believe it is important to question. Not because every answer we find will be the answer we want, and not because every belief we were raised with was necessarily wrong, but because we deserve the opportunity to discover what we actually believe.
For me, healing has meant learning to distinguish between what I believe and what I was taught I was supposed to believe. It has meant learning to hear my own voice after decades of telling it to be quiet.
I wish I could say that once I realized I was allowed to question, the fear disappeared. It didn’t.
There are still questions that are difficult for me to ask, and there are things I still catch myself filtering before I even realize I’m doing it.
After so many years of learning to silence myself, finding my voice has been less like flipping a switch and more like learning a language I was once afraid to speak.
I am still learning.
There are still things I am untangling, and there are still questions I am learning how to say out loud. But I no longer believe I have to know exactly where a question will lead before I am allowed to ask it.
And sometimes I think about that seven-year-old girl.
I wonder what it would have been like if someone had sat beside her when she had a question and told her:
You are seen.
You are loved.
Your questions are welcome.
Nothing you ask will change the way I see you.
Nothing you ask will change the way I love you.
Nothing you discover will make you less worthy of love.
If that little girl had looked at me and whispered, “But what if I’m wrong?”
I think I know what I would tell her now.
I would say:
But what if you’re right?
And then I would tell her that she doesn’t have to figure everything out alone. I would tell her that I am right here, eagerly waiting to hear her questions. I would walk through them with her, even when they are uncomfortable, even when we don’t know where they will lead.
Because that is what I am learning to do for myself.
If you are carrying questions of your own, I hope you know you don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to be certain before you give yourself permission to wonder, and you don’t have to say them out loud before you are ready.
I am still finding my way through this, too. There are questions I am still afraid to ask, and there are parts of me that are still learning that it is safe to speak.
But I am asking.
And for the first time in my life, I am listening for the answers in my own voice.
I think that may be what I was most afraid to say out loud all those years ago. Not one particular question, but the realization that I was allowed to have questions at all.
So if you have been taught to be afraid of your own questions, I hope you know you are allowed to have them. You are allowed to sit with them, explore them, and take your time finding your way through them.
I’m not rushing either.
I am still learning that asking a question does not make me less worthy of love.
And I hope, in time, you can believe that about yourself, too.
About the Guest Author:
Annette is a writer, mother, and grandmother who writes about faith, identity, healing, relationships, and the questions that shape us along the way. Much of her writing is rooted in lived experience and a lifelong curiosity about people, their stories, and the ways we find our way forward. She is currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice, with plans to further her education through a master’s degree in social work.
Disclaimer:
The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in guest blog posts are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the positions of the Religious Trauma Network. We recognize that each person’s healing journey is unique, personal, and courageous. The stories shared here belong solely to the contributors, and their experiences, perspectives, and advice may not apply to everyone. We encourage readers to honor their own paths and seek professional support as needed.