Reclaiming My Voice

My voice has never been silenced, but through the rigor of the ordination process, my voice was greatly hushed. Now, though, I enter an era where I can claim each thought that previously I had suppressed.

Some days I feel as if I am transitioning from mutation to microphone. Whenever I tape the headset on my face on Sunday mornings, I say a prayer of thanks that I get to be heard. Because so many women are silenced in the church.

But now, I get to stand on my two feet and speak. I enunciate. I project.

Hear me, I whisper at first.

Hear me, I say.

Hear me, I shout.

Where am I in the Presbyterian Church, where am I in the world? I find myself fighting fear that I won’t have my own corner to settle in after this residency.

In many ways, New Orleans is a space where I have come to heal. I came here, battered and worn and sad and shame-filled from my own hard-headiness and failures. And coming here, I found a church in my Pickleball league. A space where I was truly claimed and loved, as well were us all. A merry-band of poorly-trained Pickleball enthusiasts. We were addled, tired, aged, youthful, dirty and clean all at the same time. Like eggs, broken and pieced back together by tape and glue.

A few weeks ago my therapist stopped me in the middle of our session.

Ashley, you’re not broken. She had said.

I hadn’t even realized I had said that I felt that I was.

My own ears had shut out the thoughts on my tongue.

But here, in New Orleans- I feel claimed and seen. I feel purpose. Perhaps, it will all be ok. I feels like it will be ok, in fact.

For me though- it starts with being able to use my voice and my self expression. If I can do that- then I will always be ok.