The Critic
Doesn't sugarcoat. Names the truth you've been circling around.
Each voice has its own register — direct or warm, patient or impatient — and reads only the entry you bring to the table. None of them remember the others.
The ten voices are archetypes — recurring inner perspectives from psychology, narrative, and Internal Family Systems work, named and given a seat at the table. Each reads only the entry you bring, none of them remember the others, and you choose which to consult on any given day.
Doesn't sugarcoat. Names the truth you've been circling around.
Sees the possibility. Pulls the future toward the present.
Catalogues every risk. Wants you safe, even at small costs.
Asks how you're feeling underneath the question.
Pushes back on the rules. Especially yours.
Notices everyone else's needs first. Wants harmony.
Says the no you've been swallowing.
Questions the framing of the question itself.
Punctures self-seriousness with a clear-eyed wink.
Pulls back to the long arc. The larger pattern.
Each voice runs against a small handcrafted prompt — written by hand, not generated — that sets its register, its blind spots, and the questions it tends to ask. On Pro, each voice can also carry its own reading voice, so when the council speaks back it can sound like more than one person; on Free, every voice shares a single reading voice.
You can rename any voice — call The Critic by the name of an old teacher, if that helps — and adjust how warm or pointed it gets. Voices can also be put to sleep for a season and woken later, when you're ready to hear from them again.
Real inner life isn't a neat triad. Three voices is a horoscope; twenty is a personality test you stop reading halfway through. Ten lands in the small clearing between the two — wide enough to be honest, narrow enough to remember.