I’ve always thought in questions. My mind naturally pulls apart ideas, pokes at assumptions, and looks for the cracks where deeper truths might be hiding. But I learned early on that questioning can make people uncomfortable—especially those who are invested in maintaining control.

The Moment I Realized the System Was Rigged

In fifth grade, I proudly walking into the Head Nun’s office at my Catholic school. I had come to tell her something important:

“I want to be a priest.”

She barely hesitated before responding:

“Women can’t be priests. Why don’t you become a nun?”

Without thinking, I asked what seemed like the most logical follow-up:

“Why would I want to become a lowly nun?”

I wasn’t trying to be rude. I wasn’t angry. I was just working through the rules of this system, and they didn’t make sense. Why would “God”—after making me exactly as I am—say I wasn’t good enough to lead his people? The nun was too shocked and dumbfounded to reply. But in that moment, I realized something: this wasn’t about fairness, truth, or even faith. It was about control.

Years later, in eighth grade, I found myself at a church retreat leading up to my confirmation. Once again, I was full of questions. I kept asking, not to challenge, but to expand my understanding. The more I questioned, the more frustrated the priests and nuns became. Eventually, they shut me down completely:

“The devil is trying to lead you astray.”

To which I responded,

“God gave me a brain, and it would be rude to spit on His gift.”

That was it. I was forbidden from asking any more questions in front of the class.

In that moment, my mind shifted from seeking understanding to seeing the game for what it was. If questions weren’t allowed, then what were we really doing here? I made my decision. The day after my confirmation, I walked away from the church.

But I never walked away from questioning.

How We Learn to Doubt Ourselves

I was lucky—I never lost my connection to my intuition. But many people do.

From an early age, we’re taught that questioning authority is dangerous. Schools, workplaces, religious institutions, even family systems—many are built on the idea that obedience is virtue and questioning is defiance.

When people tell you, “That’s just how it is,” what they’re really saying is: “Don’t make me think too hard about this.”

The problem? Silencing questions doesn’t make the system stronger—it makes people weaker.

When we stop questioning, we stop trusting our instincts.
When we stop trusting our instincts, we lose our ability to discern truth.
And when we lose our ability to discern truth, we become easy to control.

The Cost of Staying Silent

This isn’t just about religion.

It happens in workplaces where people don’t speak up about broken policies.
It happens in relationships where someone feels something is off but is afraid to ask.
It happens in society when we accept “that’s just the way things are” instead of demanding better.

For me, questioning authority never stopped. I knew systems were flawed, so I kept asking. But there’s one place where I do hold back—romantic relationships.

There, I hesitate. I’m afraid to ask too many questions because I’m afraid of the answers. Unlike institutions, relationships are deeply personal. I can stay objective about society’s flaws, but when emotions are involved, self-doubt sneaks in.

And that’s the real cost of silencing ourselves. It’s not just about following rules—it’s about losing the ability to trust what we feel, what we know, and what we need to ask.

Reclaiming Your Inner Voice

As Revelers of Authenticity, we know that curiosity is not rebellion—it’s wisdom. True authenticity comes from questioning, exploring, and trusting our instincts even when the world tells us not to.

So ask yourself:

🔸️When did you first start doubting your own voice?

🔸️Where in your life do you still hesitate to ask the hard questions?

🔸️What would change if you gave yourself full permission to question everything?


Because the truth is, the moment you stop questioning is the moment you hand over your power.