What I Didn’t Post—and Why It Matters Now

In this cultural moment where nuance is often lost and silence feels safer than honesty - a reflection on faith, identity, and the quiet courage it takes to speak up.

Over the last three weeks, I’ve started countless Substack posts. I followed “wechoosewelcome and joined #walkinsolidarity2025, walking daily with plans to share each step. I didn’t. I have photos from NYC’s #NoKings march, a Juneteenth concert, and a Remembering George Floyd dialogue. But I stayed silent. I drafted a post for International Refugee Day and submitted my dissertation proposal on mass migration movements. Still, silence.

I’ve spent hours editing myself. I suspect I’m not alone.

I’m in my “I am woman, hear me roar” era, reclaiming my identity beyond motherhood and marriage. I love my family deeply, but I’m rediscovering the parts of me that got quiet. I’ve got a front row reservation in the “We Do Not Care Movement,” and if you don’t yet follow @justbeingmelani - do it now.

Yet I feel cautious. Not just in what I say but cautious to invite discussion.

I walk my dog while streaming podcasts that deal with culture, politics and Christianity - but I do it privately like an addict hiding an addiction. If my Kindle library were a high school locker, the covers have been brown-bagged to hide culture-war themes that challenge the ultra-conservative agenda that raised me. Every good-mothering-muscle formed in 28 years of parenting screams that the healthiest path is to talk about these topics and explore where I agree and I disagree. But I’m hesitant to post those titles, even on my own Substack - not out of shame, but for fear of being misunderstood.

Maybe that’s why silence feels so loud now - because there was a time when I didn’t second-guess discussion. Before I learned to edit myself for comfort or approval, I trusted that opinion - spoken with care - had value. And maybe that’s what I’m trying to return to now - the integrity of showing up fully, even when the words are hard to say.

This instinct to speak with honesty didn’t come out of nowhere. It’s etched in my GenX DNA and shaped by the simple complexity of our GenX youth.

Photo by Marija Zaric on Unsplash

Our childhoods were chaos in denim jackets - equal parts latchkey loneliness and MTV liberation. We were the first cultural cohort to unlock our own front doors, microwave cheese sandwiches, and soundtrack our solitude with mixtapes and Madonna.

The Cold War loomed, the Middle East burned, and the nightly news whispered dystopia into our living rooms. So we cranked the volume. Michael Jackson moonwalked across our screens and we screamed “go ahead and jump” with Van Halen. We found catharsis in syncopated beats, screaming guitar riffs, and the raw defiance of a generation that danced through the static.

Squint and you see 15-year-old me - preppy on the outside, khakis and loafers, with bangs teased 2-inches high — mouthing “Like a Virgin” under my breath. A church girl with a rebel-yell buried deep, dreaming of Cyndi Lauper’s punk hair, combat boots, and chipped black nail polish.

We were complicated. But God? Back then, He smiled at purity and scowled at Madonna.

Didn’t He?

In retrospect, maybe purity culture mixed with a dispensationalist theology was its own genre of dystopia. A strange marriage of Madonna and the Rapture - of culture and church - where fear masqueraded as faith, and curiosity was mistaken for rebellion.

So, what happens when the language of faith becomes a weapon? What happens when the bold lines of “right” and “wrong” drown out the nuance of lived experience and empathy? What happens when the Word — meant for good news - gets tangled in fear, shame and silence?

Maybe resistance isn’t rebellion at all.

Maybe it’s the quiet, steady work of reclaiming the courage to ask hard questions, to speak with honesty, and to believe that grace still has room for complexity.

I’m convinced that what we don’t say matters more than we think. There are moments when silence is wisdom — when holding our tongues preserves peace. But there also times when silence becomes complicity. Living here in Harlem, I’m learning yet another layer of how silence can be weaponized: Not by intention, but by absence — by failing to show up, to speak up, to stand alongside.

In a brief conversation with a Black neighbor who works in justice advocacy, he said, “We need the clergy to be present at the table because they can make it a more compassionate place.” His words carried weight — not just in what was spoken, but in the shared understanding beneath them. We’ve talked enough about race, power, and voice for me to hear the subtext clearly. Presence at the table must be more than symbolic. It must be spacious enough to hold a multitude of voices, humble enough to offer respect rather than demanding it, and wise enough to recognize the layered complexity of this cultural moment.

I suppose this post is one part confession, one part reminiscing, and one part invitation. Let’s re-discover the art of big tents or big tables or big hearts — what Jesus simply called “loving neighbor”. Leave behind the fire and brimstone of weapons and wars — and the 2-inch bangs — and let’s find our way forward. Together.

If today’s post resonates with you, then here are some ways we could begin:

Speak with integrity. Share your truth — even when it’s messy or met with silence. Words spoken with care can bring healing.

Reclaim your voice. You are more than the roles you have or the silence you have kept. Let your full self — curious, questioning and whole - step forward.

Make space for nuance. Create room for conversations that don’t fit neatly into categories. Invite others into dialogue rather than debate and let grace do the heavy lifting.

Let me know. If you too are looking for a space for dialogue and discussion or you just miss the fun of Cyndi Lauper, let me know. Maybe we’ll find a way or a community, or some shared music together.