What I Learned by Staying Quiet

Last night, the apartment was too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

Not candlelight and tea quiet.

The heavy kind.

The kind that presses against your ears until you start noticing every little sound —

the fridge humming,

the clock ticking,

your own breathing like it doesn’t belong to you.

I was sitting on the kitchen counter in the dark, phone facedown beside me.

No music.

No TV.

Just the blue streetlight slipping through the blinds, cutting the room into soft shadows.

I don’t even remember why I’d stopped moving.

I just… paused.

Like my body forgot what came next.

And for a second, it felt like the whole world had stepped away from me.

Like everyone else had somewhere to be, someone to text, something pulling them forward.

And I was just there.

Still.

Listening to nothing.

I used to be afraid of silence.

I filled it with everything.

Podcasts while cooking.

Shows while folding laundry.

Music in the shower.

Scrolling until my eyes hurt.

Anything so I wouldn’t have to sit alone with my own thoughts.

Because silence has a way of telling the truth.

And sometimes the truth is uncomfortable.

Like realizing how tired you actually are.

How lonely you’ve been.

How long it’s been since someone held you without you having to ask.

How much of your life is just noise to distract you from the ache.

We’re so good at pretending we’re fine.

We answer texts fast.

We laugh loud.

We stay busy.

But the moment everything goes quiet?

It’s just us.

And all the things we’ve been avoiding.

Sitting there in the dark, I thought:

When did I get this exhausted?

Not sleepy.

Soul-tired

The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.

The kind that comes from always being strong.

Always being available.

Always being the one who understands everyone else.

I realized I couldn’t remember the last time someone asked me if I was okay — and really waited for the answer.

And worse?

I realized I hadn’t asked myself either.

I’d been fluent in everyone else’s needs.

But completely illiterate in my own.

So I stayed there a little longer.

Didn’t turn anything on.

Didn’t reach for my phone.

Just let the silence sit beside me like an old friend.

At first it felt unbearable.

Then unfamiliar.

Then… gentle.

Like the world wasn’t demanding anything from me for once.

No performance.

No productivity.

No “be better.”

Just breathing.

Just existing.

And something inside me loosened.

Like my shoulders dropped without permission.

Like my heart finally stopped bracing for impact.

Maybe silence isn’t empty.

Maybe it’s space.

Space to hear yourself again.

Now, when things get too loud — inside my head or outside my life —

I try something small.

I turn everything off.

I sit by the window.

I let the room be quiet.

No fixing. No forcing.

Just listening.

Sometimes I cry.

Sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes nothing happens at all.

But it feels honest.

And lately, honest feels better than distracted.

If you’re afraid of the quiet too…

If you keep filling every second because you don’t want to feel what’s underneath…

maybe try staying still for a moment.

Not to solve anything.

Just to be with yourself.

You don’t have to be productive there.

You don’t have to impress anyone.

You’re allowed to take up space, even in silence.

Especially in silence.

Tonight, if the world feels too loud or too far away,

turn off the lights.

Sit somewhere soft.

Let the quiet wrap around you.

You might hear something you’ve been missing.

Yourself.

And I promise —you’re not alone in that silence.

I’m there too, breathing in the dark, learning how to listen.