For most of my life, silence was survival. As a little girl, I learned that crying only led to punishment, that asking questions was dangerous, and that speaking up risked rejection. My earliest memories are cold water, broken crockery, hiding in cupboards — moments that told me my voice had no value.

That lie stayed with me for decades. It’s why public speaking feels like standing exposed under a harsh light, why even recording myself feels unbearable. Deep inside, there’s still that little girl who fears that if she speaks too much, she’ll be ignored, shamed, or cast aside.

When Ashish asked me at The Gathering about my public speaking, I admitted it’s not the stage that frightens me most — it’s my own voice. Listening to it still feels foreign, uncomfortable, almost unsafe. Yet, slowly, God is unravelling the silence. He’s been showing me that connection is not just my message, it’s my calling.

As I process my story in writing, prayer, and in the safe circle of ministry groups, I’m learning to risk more — to ask questions, to receive kindness, to let others in. Even something as small as saying “yes, please” to a cup of tea has become a milestone of growth.

This week, my focus has been on the challenge of asking questions. I keep hearing that good leaders ask good questions. Yet for me, this feels like standing at the edge of a cliff — both longing to step forward and fearing the fall.

When I share something I've been told with Clive, he can so naturally ask, “So what? And what about this? And what about that?” But when I hear him, I freeze. I find myself thinking, Do I look like a reporter? I don’t know how to frame the questions, even though I desperately want to understand and connect. It’s not a lack of curiosity; it’s the weight of a wound.

As a prayer minister, this becomes even harder. A two-hour ministry session relies heavily on asking questions — 90% of the time is spent listening, discerning, and gently inviting the person to go deeper through the right questions. And sometimes I feel paralysed by it, worried that I won’t find the words, that my silence will betray my inadequacy.

The truth is, the struggle to ask questions is deeply connected to my struggle with speaking at all. Both are rooted in the same soil — the childhood decision that my voice had no value, that silence was safer.

Yet, I sense God’s invitation here. Not to shame myself for hesitating, but to see this as another layer of healing He is unwrapping. Each small step matters — whether it’s saying yes to a cup of tea, daring to speak in front of others, or formulating one simple question in prayer ministry. It is growth. It is learning. It is healing.

I may not yet feel confident in asking people questions, but I am learning to ask God. And perhaps that is the first, most important step.

I see now that rejection has many layers, and healing comes in many layers too. Every conversation, every prayer session, every trembling step into vulnerability is another stone rolled away from the tomb of silence. God is teaching me that my voice does have value — not because it’s polished or perfect, but because it carries His story of redemption.

If He can lift a girl who once believed she was a mistake into a woman who now stands and speaks of hope, then there is no wound too deep, no silence too strong for His love to redeem.

So I keep speaking — haltingly, imperfectly, but faithfully — trusting that every word is another seed of connection.