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Off Script

Realism refusing to bow to performance

Melanie Amanda Waits

https://substack.com/@melanieamandawaits

Mar 28, 2026

Narcissism. It’s starting to look like less of a disorder, and more like an entire belief system, huh…

Passed down from generation to generation. The bullies that took lunch money from the less fortunate children at school. The ones that objectified young ladies whose bodies were blossoming into their own unique womanhood. Hail to the ones that grew into a wildflower rather than another, perfectly manicured, red rose from their garden of expectations. One in a dozen.

Family members, friends, close ones are typically the same, that is, if they want to be the favored child, spouse, cousin, friend, neighbor, stranger.

It takes a hell of a lot more grit to be that outcasted child, spouse, friend, neighbor, coworker, stranger. So, if you feel it’s better for you to take what you consider the easy way out, with your golden ticket of societal acceptance, I understand.

But that shiny golden ticket will only take you so far in a crumbling society…with evil as propriety.

While you scheme behind the curtain, and then cleverly improv on stage, there’s an audience gently reaching for each others’ hands, out of love and support of our neighbor, child, spouse, friend, stranger…because, from our perspective, we see the danger.

Oh, yeah…we’re so silly. We’re crazy. That gaslight has always remained bright…right?

Suppressed, undressed, stressed and told we’re blessed

To have a bumbling fool scream and spit in our face, and categorize us by class, level of empathy, and race. What a disgrace he has made of this place…and the human race.

People are conditioned to hide their natural talents, their natural voices, warp their perception and rethink their direction.

There are the ones that are ridiculed for going off script. Cutting the marionette strings, and simply becoming human beings.

But I’m not going to fight back in a way that you’d wish I would. “It’s ok, bro. I’m not mad at you.”…We’ll give you plenty of rope…keep doing what you do.

They’d rather burn the whole world down, with the help of flying monkeys before they’ll be exposed. Our job was to do all we’re told, all primped and posed.

You stepped on us, while throwing out compliments and empty promises just to climb to the top. You think you’re unstoppable, but one day, you’ll stop.

How do I know this? Because I’ve been held captive by you. I was the daughter, the friend, the neighbor, the cousin, coworker, church member, the stranger to you.

I’ve worked with the rotting corporate cliques that turn against you when you blow the whistle on wrongdoing. And every step taken toward personal success, hearing nothing but booing.

I’ve sat in church, noticing the side eye, the one that was begging me to notice, so that they know that I know that I’m less…and have no business entering their country club, especially in that dress.

I was categorized, labeled, classed, and told to just marry rich. Poor or rich, why? For my security, only to be addressed as a “fucking bitch”?

I get pushed down when I resist, told to remember my place. Actually, excuse me…I’ll embrace my sacred space…with my true friends, neighbors, companion…with grace.

Ground vs Current

Even when you lose your way, it hasn’t lost you

Melanie Amanda Waits

https://substack.com/@melanieamandawaits

Mar 24, 2026

The path is still there for you.

Still in its place.
Concrete. Solid ground.
Leading toward something, whether you can see it right now or not.

Waiting for you to step back on
after stumbling off to the side…
into the dark wooded areas,
into the soft sand,
into a sea of doubt, despair,
tumultuous currents pulling you into confusion.

Look back at where you started.

The path is still there.

You’ve failed… again.
Lost your focus.
With what feels like nothing but loneliness
walking beside your broken spirit.

But sometimes,
the deafening silence of loneliness
is what drowns out the music around you.

Listen.

Listen to the soft-spoken voices
that remind you of your worth,
spoken gently,
with an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

Listen to the ones
who call out your name with zeal as you pass by.

Not one of them is obligated
to give you a single breath of encouragement.

But they do.

Because they see something in you.

They’ve been lost before too;
just in different ways.

That support?
That’s energy.

Energy meant to guide you
back toward where you’re meant to be.

Keep going.

The path is still there for us.

The detours.
The roadblocks.
The reckless drivers of life
moving only for themselves.

Who are they?

The ones still lost,
ears covered,
blinders on.

Wild cards without direction.
Without meaning.

Maybe some will find their way.
Maybe some won’t.

But not you.

Not us.

We’ll move forward,
hand in hand,
with intention.

And the current?

It will carry the rest away

When “No” Isn’t Respected

Navigating Boundaries with Evangelical Outreach

Melanie Amanda Waits 

https://substack.com/@melanieamandawaits

Mar 17, 2026

For many people, faith is deeply personal and something to be shared, but not imposed. Yet across communities, a growing number of individuals are speaking up about a difficult experience; struggling to set boundaries with well-meaning but persistent evangelical Christians.

At the heart of evangelical culture is the call to “witness” or share one’s faith. For believers, this isn’t casual, it’s often viewed as a moral responsibility tied to eternal consequences. That urgency can blur lines. What begins as an invitation to church can sometimes become repeated messaging, unexpected visits, or continued persuasion, even after a clear and respectful “no.”

When Faith Crosses Into Pressure

Many former church members and observers describe a pattern; persistence framed as care and obligation to the faith. In some circles, declining an invitation isn’t seen as a final answer, it’s seen as an opportunity to try again later, or differently. The intention may be rooted in concern, but the impact can feel intrusive.

Online discussions among former evangelicals highlight this tension. One person described feeling that “pressure to ‘witness”, tells you to ignore your gut,” even when it feels inappropriate. Others point to a culture where saying no is interpreted as a boundary, but as resistance to be overcome.

The Boundary Problem

Healthy relationships, religious or not, depend on mutual respect. The issue becomes more complex outside of formal leadership. When everyday believers feel personally responsible for someone else’s spiritual outcome, boundaries can unintentionally erode.

This dynamic can lead to repeated invitations after refusal, emotional appeals tied to fear, guilt or salvation from eternal damnation, difficulty maintaining friendships without religious pressure, complete alienation, or…crucifixion, if you will.

When Persistence Becomes Harm

In more serious cases, experts warn that environments lacking clear boundaries can open the door to deeper issues. Some researchers and church reform advocates note that systems emphasizing authority, submission, or spiritual urgency can be misused, especially when accountability is weak. This doesn’t mean all evangelicals behave this way. Many respect boundaries fully. But when a culture prioritizes persuasion over consent, even good intentions can cause harm.

As someone who grew up in a family that outwardly sported a polished religious façade while damage unfolded behind the scenes at home, I entered adulthood without a clear understanding of what respectful boundaries looked like.

I became a young woman…and later a mother, navigating an aggressive, androcentric society while constantly questioning whether my “No” to anything was the right answer. Especially when that answer had so often been reprimanded or dismissed by others once it left my lips. The weight of that doubt rested heavily on my shoulders… yet the truth remained quietly tucked in my heart. something isn’t quite right.

A Growing Push for Change

There is an increasing call, both inside and outside the church, for a shift in how outreach is practiced. Some Christians, including ethicists like David P. Gushee, have advocated for a more compassionate, consent-based approach to faith conversations, one that centers dignity over persuasion.

At the same time, movements of former evangelicals have emerged, often citing boundary violations, spiritual pressure, and lack of autonomy as reasons for stepping away from church environments altogether.

Respect as a Two-Way Street

The solution isn’t silence, it’s respect. Sharing beliefs can be meaningful and welcome when it happens within mutual trust. But when someone says no, that boundary deserves to be honored without negotiation.

Because ultimately, faith, like any deeply held belief, loses its meaning when it’s no longer freely chosen.

Melanie A. Waits

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Tagged

When Identity Labels Come Before the Story

Melanie Amanda Waits

https://substack.com/@melanieamandawaits

Feb 26, 2026

In the year 2026, it is striking that many conversations still begin with a qualifier that has no pertinence to the topic being discussed. A person is introduced not by their actions, character, or relevance to the topic, but by their skin color, sexual orientation, body type, nationality, or some other descriptive trait unrelated to the point at hand.

This is not about legitimate identification; not medical descriptions, not police reports, not missing person alerts where details serve a clear purpose. Those contexts rely on accurate descriptors for practical and necessary reasons. What raises concern is the casual, almost reflexive insertion of labels into everyday storytelling, commentary, and conversation where they add no factual value. Instead, they function like metaphorical “baggage” tags, subtly marking someone as belonging to a particular subcategory of humanity before anything else is known about them.

It prompts a question worth asking…what is the prelude for, exactly?

Is it meant to frame how listeners should interpret the story that follows? Is it a cue, conscious or unconscious, suggesting how much credibility, sympathy, or skepticism the person deserves? When unrelated identifiers lead the introduction, they stop being neutral descriptors and start becoming narrative instructions. They plant an impression before the facts have even arrived.

Language shapes perception. The order in which we present information matters. When a person is defined first by an attribute that has no bearing on the situation, it signals that the attribute is somehow essential to understanding them, even when it is not. Over time, this habit reinforces the idea that individuals are representatives of categories rather than complex human beings whose identities cannot be reduced to a single trait.

None of this requires malice to be harmful. Often, it is simply habit; a learned rhythm of speech absorbed from media, social discourse, and especially cultural norms. But habits, especially linguistic ones, quietly influence the way we think…and the more unquestioned they go, the more invisible their impact becomes.

What would happen if we reversed the order? What if character preceded category? The story would still be told. The facts would remain intact. But the listener would encounter a person, not a label.

Perhaps the goal is not to eliminate descriptors altogether; they have their place when they are relevant, meaningful, or necessary. The goal is awareness. To pause long enough to ask, does this detail help understanding, or does it simply frame perception?

Because when we place labels before stories, we risk letting the label become the story.

Surround Sound

Luther College Nordic Choir

Melanie Amanda Waits 

https://substack.com/@melanieamandawaits

Feb 18, 2026

I immediately melted into the ambiance. The warm golden glow filling the open space and glistening through the wooden beams as I walked beneath them, slowly down the isle, as though the choir was waiting for me to take a seat in front of them, before they opened the gift of their angelic voices to soothe my soul. I knew it was a gift presented to me but wasn’t quite sure yet how to gage it. So, I sat back and I listened. Every tone of each harmony hummed through my ears. I noticed the passionate expressions on each face as they sang their melodic hearts out, as well as the softened faces of those of us in the audience.

A soft, steady drumming in the background at times; fingers lightly dancing over piano keys and still that warm golden glow filling our place of refuge, shimmering against the stained glass backdrop.

It wasn’t church itself, or religion. It was the pure indulgence of the soul, just by pressing pause on the daily routine and letting the higher vibrations play in the foreground for a while.

By the last song, we were all surrounded, a capella voices in stereo sound; holding hands to surround and guard us from the outside world, if only for a moment.

Water Colored Wishes

I felt my eyes involuntarily widen as I realized how I'd forgotten how satisfied I get with dipping a brush and smearing the pigment onto 140 lb. cold pressed paper. The cool, open air all around yet the cozy feeling of support warming me from within. Once I returned home, I casually sifted through the photos I snapped during class. You can feel the mellow vibes even through the black and whites. Look at us...the dreamers with watery colors dripping down into the grooves with each move, and the creator teaching the creatives; passing along the sacred skills built within and ready to surface. I studied the instructor. I'm glad it was this particular instructor, although, I can't tell you exactly why at the moment. I just know I left feeling as light as a feather with mended feathered wings, carrying a heavy dose of creativity. Just what the Great Physician ordered. Build your foundation on the primary, absorb the splatter and let your heart be the backlight, projecting through, until the mess becomes a masterpiece. 

Imagery of Heaven

I grew up listening to sermons and reading on the perfectness of Heaven. The streets of gold, the walls of jasper, the gates of pearl, the symmetry...a city of gold, garnished in precious stones.  Okay, but hear me out...

A Heaven for me would be my bare feet pressed against a cool, clay ground

A trickling echo with crystal waters from snowcapped mountains, flowing down

 With shades of blues, greens, grays and browns

And vivid pops of flowers scattered all around

The sound of soft, rhythmic beats and melodic harmonies

Sung by the familiar voices of our Most Cherished, and the Painted Buntings in the serene oak trees

At night, stars would lower, as though they're on a clear string

Not as in diamonds, the same brilliance a diamond, nor any other jewel, could not bring

(Afterall, the luster of such wore off to me a long time ago

After being lusted and fought over, just for a percentage to show off their extra glow)

A vision to see microscopic views as big as the skies

And to see lightyears away, knowing the answers to your whys

Still remembering the past and all that I've overcome

How perfect would this place seem if I didn't remember where I came from

A natural place, no artificially intelligent part

No questioning; the paper mâché  walls of poetry are written by the human heart

A slight breeze, preferably a temp in the 70s

I'll follow the grassy-walled path that leads to the seas

I'll sleep on the silky sand, to the lull of whispering waves

Until the sun wakes me and wraps me in the golden warmth my skin craves

It may appall some and others might see

But this is my Heaven in my Imagery

The holiday season does well with putting things into perspective. Even without being a very festive person, the magnification and significance of traditions has a way of causing me to turn inward and examine my role in the crowd I'm standing in. To gaze through the tangled strands of lights and connect with the strongest electrical currents. There are the brightest names you immediately write onto Christmas cards, the ones that come to mind, and the ones your hand will never write out. It's clear who was genuinely there throughout the year; some seeming to be angels sent on a mission to teach , to show love, to wake me up, and to guide me forward in life, into the unknown territory that I've been viewing from afar but have yet to wander. But, now, with guidance, I wonder...I wonder how far I can go.  For that, I'm forever grateful. For the ones that were only sent for an assignment, thank you and I hope we meet again in whatever capacity that may be. 

The Alchemy of Greif

Greif. A word that has multiple explanations, advice, wisdom and ignorance attached to it. Once the entity has wrapped its rope firmly around you and pulled you under, it's a whirlwind of deep despair, eerie echoey laughter at memories so fond in the mind yet so crushing on the heart. It's a who's-who in the next phase of life. Who is part of a team effort...and who among us is fighting a quiet, individual battle of severance to bliss, equipped with a level of strength we never asked for and never knew was so profound for continuing on to the next day...and the next...and the next. The harshness of grief confirms that life really isn't fair, no matter how we try to spin it. The authority of grief allows me choices on my navigation and exploration of this dimly moonlit forest I've wandered into. The cruelty of grief released the vultures of society, to pick at the leftovers...but only at the perishable fare, accessorizing what once was. The bones and spirit remain with me, where love was planted and now blossoming into full bloom. The nurturance of grief assures me that I'll find my place, and ushers me forward with each small step. The hope of grief showers me with dreams and visions of embrace from the cultivator of my love. The guarantee in all of this? We're not alone.

Discarded into the woods. No map, no direction, just the ache of finding myself, the forest, through the trees; and while sifting through carefully, but with a sense of urgency...somehow, even fear began to look like beauty.

  The music of society is the sound of all of us layered together; footsteps on pavement, delivery trucks at dawn, keys in doors, kids yelling down hallways, quiet keystrokes, protest chants, train brakes, laughter from open windows, whispered prayers, late-night sirens, languages overlapping at crosswalks. It’s not always in tune and not always kind, but it’s alive; a restless, shifting score that reveals who gets heard, who gets silenced, and how we move around each other. When we choose empathy, fairness, and curiosity, it’s like someone adjusts the levels, and suddenly the noise starts to sound a little more like a song we could all belong to.

 I've been publicizing more of my running journeys on social media lately. Mostly in hopes of encouraging others. My running days started in childhood. A friend encouraged me to join our middle school track and field team. We went full force into practicing. It was difficult and I was terrible at it but I still wanted to give it all I had. Unfortunately (cue the violin), a disgruntled school staff member got us kicked off of the team by accusing us of smoking at a track meet. At that time in my life, I had never so much as picked up a cigarette...and I could only imagine the color green I would've turned if I had taken a puff of anything. Oh, the joys of being an outcast student. The devastating experience still crosses my mind every once in a while while I'm mid-race these days...and it motivates me to pick up the pace just a little more. I may never be the fastest or go the farthest distance on foot, but in my heart and mind I've already won.

I’ve outrun the shame that didn’t belong to me, the labels I never asked for, and the voice that said I didn’t belong on the track. Every mile I post isn’t about bragging; it’s a thank you to my younger self for showing up anyway, and an open door for anyone who needs proof that starting over counts.

These days, I measure success in how a hard week becomes softer after a sunrise run. In the "family" and support I've gained from the running community; especially the ones cheering me on recently after knowing I was fighting to continue on after the sudden and tragic death of my caring, loving partner in life. I run because it reminds me I’m allowed to take up space, to try again, to keep going after others tried to bench me.

So if you see my updates, know they're an invitation. We don’t have to be the fastest or the farthest. We just have to be the ones who keep moving. And on the days that old memories flicker, I pick up the pace, not to escape it, but to carry it differently. That’s my finish line now: choosing forward, one step at a time.

  I've always been drawn to others that stand out by not standing out. I wonder if there is a storm brewing inside of their mind, or if they're simply content in their current environment. There is an emotional remoteness that a multitude of living beings experience. Throughout the years, I've examined the paradox of connection; how proximity can still feel like exile. Through layered textures, reflective surfaces, and obscured light, these photographs visualize the unseen distance between souls. Each piece holds a heartbeat suspended in glass, a portrait of warmth unreachable yet desired. 

 The autumn air has been weaving it's way through, soon (hopefully) to take the place of the stagnant summer heat. I love the experience of a fresh, new season beginning. The brisk breeze always prompts my eyes to look upward, and for some reason, the sky seems more vast than it's been in a while, even if grayer. I get a little excited in October to add little pops of eerie flair to my photos. There's something about stark contrasts in light, unexpected reflections and liminal spaces that heighten our senses.  

 The first two photos were taken in 2011 and the third was in 2015. All were an early, misty morning photoshoot during the late summer/early fall season on Amelia Island. There's something about the quiet, serene dawn of the north end of the island that soothes the soul and fills me with contentment. All will be ok, no matter what happens. Breathe in that fresh, salty gust of air, inhale and exhale in sync with the waves. Ground your feet in the cool sand and let your hair fly like streamers into the wind. Use all senses to fully indulge in the moment.

Amelia Island's history is a "story of eight flags," reflecting its control by French, Spanish, British, Patriot, Green Cross, Mexican, Confederate, and U.S. forces after initial Timucuan settlement around 1000 AD. Renamed Amelia in 1735 by James Oglethorpe after a British princess, the island's strategic location led to its frequent transfer between colonial powers and its use as a base for smuggling and pirate activity. It also played a role in the Civil War, with Fort Clinch becoming a Federal stronghold, and later became a significant location for freed Black communities after emancipation.