This morning, playing pickleball, I hit the ball into the net. "Barnes! What are you doing?!" I exclaimed. The stuff going on in my head was out there for everyone to hear. My partner wasn't doing much better, "Get your feet right!" he muttered to himself.

I have high expectations of myself. I'm my own worst critic. When something goes wrong for which I'm responsible, I want to know why and I want to improve.

What context?

But this doesn't translate to some contexts. For example, family. We have a wonderful family. I love them so much. But sometimes I'm not sure about what my role is anymore. Sometimes I sense family members may not like how I'm showing up. And so, I have these dialogues in my head. "I'm tired. I can be 'too much' - too intense, too directive. Maybe I should just not engage for a while."

Or, there are teams I'm a part of. On a Zoom call yesterday, in keeping with my philosophy of vulnerable leadership, I shared some of my self-talk with team members. Maybe I was taking a chance. Their response was, "Thanks for sharing. We need to know what's going on with you. If anything, you should be even more specific about those issues."

Some of the self-talk was me feeling emotionally depleted. And some of it was just me feeling confused.

What do you do when your emotional bank account is empty and people keep trying to make withdrawals? Often, that’s when my self-talk grows loudest. The echo chamber of my mind amplifies doubts: You should have done better. You’re failing the people you love.

Amplifying pain

But I’m learning that bad self-talk is a kind of pain amplifier. There’s good pain, the kind that teaches us, refines us, even draws us closer to God. And then there’s the pain that distorts, that whispers lies about our worth and our place in the world. It’s not the voice of the Father; it’s the accuser of the brethren.

The antidote is listening. When I pause and invite God into the conversation, the monologue of failure becomes a dialogue of hope. The Spirit may interrupt with a simple reminder: You are my beloved son. I delight in you. You don’t have to prove anything.

It's then that I remember: my role isn’t to get everything right; it’s to stay tethered to the One who knows me, loves me, and still chooses me.

So when your self-talk runs you down, pause. Ask: Whose voice is this? What does my Father say instead? That shift - from accusation to affirmation - can change everything.

And maybe that’s the way we refill our emotional bank accounts: not by trying harder to silence the inner critic, but by letting God’s voice remind us who we are.