Instead of saying “I’m stressed”, say “my body is preparing me to rise from this challenge”. This reframes stress into energy, turning cortisol into courage. Instead of saying “I have to do this”, say “I get to do this”. This shifts the brain from pressure to gratitude, increasing motivation. Instead of saying “I’ll try”, say “I commit”. Try signals doubt, commit programs the subconscious for a follow through. Instead of saying “I’m bad at this”, say “I’m still learning this”. Your brain loves growth, and this rewires failure into progress. Instead of saying “I don’t have time”, say “it’s not my priority”. This exposes what you truly value. Instead of saying “that’s just who I am”, say “that’s who I’ve been and who I was, not who I must stay”. Sense of self is flexible, and this creates mental freedom to continue agreeing with who God says you actually are. Instead of saying “this always happens to me”, say “what can I learn from it this time?” This stops victimhood and activates problem solving mode. Instead of saying “I don’t know”, say “I don’t know yet”. Yet brings in a growth mindset, empowering the brain to search for answers. Instead of saying “I’m nervous”, say “the Holy Spirit in me is excited”. The brain cannot tell the difference, you decide the framing. Instead of saying “it’s impossible”, say “it hasn’t been done by me yet”. This opens possibility and dissolves mental barriers. Instead of saying “I can’t do this”, say “how can I do this?” Asking questions activates problem solving circuits. Instead of saying “I failed”, say “I’ve discovered one way it doesn’t work”. This resets failure into data. Instead of saying “I’m stuck”, say “I’m pausing to reset”. This turns paralysis into preparation, reducing anxiety. Instead of saying “they’re lucky”, say “they created opportunities”. This shifts envy into responsibility and empowerment. Instead of saying “I wish”, say “I will”. Wish signals helplessness, will directs action. Instead of saying “I’m overwhelmed”, say “I’m prioritizing”.

The more “money” in the account, the easier the withdrawals feel. The less “money” in the account, the harder they feel. You want to have about 20 deposits for every 1 withdrawal. You also want to learn what you do for your family that feels like a $5 deposit or a $20 deposit.

Disguise. Too many attempt to conceal their actual thoughts from themselves and others. And unfortunately, there’s rarely a better way to do so than to be a visible form of Christian. It gives the illusion to ourselves and others that we may be better than we actually are. When disguised, it merely perpetuates self-righteousness and religiosity. It prevents us from truly feeling loved, because the disguise takes it all and we get none of it. In other words, evil uses disguises to keep us from the love we all so desperately need.

If I were the devil or a nefarious entity aiming to dismantle families subtly over time, using their emotions as the primary tool, I’d approach it with a slow, insidious strategy—exploiting natural human vulnerabilities and amplifying them until the bonds erode. Here’s how I might do it: First, I’d sow seeds of resentment by nudging each family member toward self-focus. Whisper doubts into their minds—make the parents feel unappreciated, like their sacrifices go unnoticed. For the kids, I’d stoke entitlement, a sense that they deserve more than they’re getting, whether it’s attention, freedom, or stuff. I’d use everyday frustrations: a forgotten “thank you,” a messy room, a late dinner. Small things, but I’d magnify them emotionally. Over time, they’d start keeping score—who’s giving more, who’s getting less—until love feels transactional. Next, I’d weaponize guilt and shame. For the parents, I’d plant the idea that they’re failing—too strict, too lenient, not present enough. I’d make them question every decision until they’re paralyzed, retreating into themselves instead of connecting. For the kids, I’d twist their mistakes into proof they’re unworthy—unloved, misunderstood. I’d keep them all too ashamed to talk openly, locking their real feelings behind walls of pride or fear. Then, I’d lean on envy and comparison. I’d nudge them to look at other families—real or curated online—and feel inadequate. The parents might envy a neighbor’s “perfect” marriage or a friend’s “successful” kids. The kids might covet their peers’ freedom or gadgets. I’d let that fester into bitterness: “Why don’t we have that?” “Why aren’t you like them?” Connection erodes when you’re too busy wishing you were someone else. I’d exploit exhaustion, too—emotional and physical. Push the parents to overwork, overcommit, until they’re too drained to engage. For the kids, I’d drown them in distractions—screens, drama, noise—so they never sit still long enough to feel the family’s pulse. I’d make silence uncomfortable, so they avoid the deep talks that build real bonds.

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