What I’ve Learned from Silence

—or, the sound beneath the sound

Silence doesn’t always arrive gently.
Sometimes it crashes in, uninvited.
Sometimes it lingers too long, like a guest who won’t speak but won’t leave.

I used to fill silence with noise—apologies, over-explanations, laughter that didn’t belong to me. I mistook volume for safety. But silence waited. Patient. Unyielding. Eventually, I stopped resisting.

What I’ve learned from silence isn’t linear. It’s not a lesson, exactly.
It’s more like a presence.
A mirror.
A rhythm I didn’t know I was dancing to.

In silence, I’ve heard the things I wasn’t ready to say.
I’ve met versions of myself I forgot I buried.
I’ve learned that some truths don’t need language—they just need space.

Silence has taught me:

• That grief has its own dialect, and it rarely speaks in full sentences.

• That not every ache needs an audience.

• That healing sometimes sounds like nothing at all.

There were nights when silence felt like punishment.
Like the world had turned its back.
But there were also mornings when silence felt like grace.
Like the universe had paused just long enough for me to catch up to myself.

I’ve learned to listen differently.
To the way my breath shifts when I’m anxious.
To the way my body leans toward or away from truth.
To the quiet between words, where meaning often hides.

Silence is not absence.
It’s invitation.
To feel. To notice. To stay.