There was a time when silence unnerved me.
When the hum of distraction—socializing, moving, cooking, fixing, planning—kept me from sitting too long with myself.
I was always in motion, always reaching.
Stillness felt foreign, like a blank page I didn’t know how to fill.
But something shifted.
After everything fell away—the job, the urgency, the adrenaline, the grief—I stopped trying to outrun it.
I softened into the quiet.
At first, it felt like loss.
But over time, it began to feel like presence.
Now, I’m protective of the quiet.
A sound bath plays in the background as I write at odd hours, often until 3 or 4 a.m., stretched out on the sofa instead of at my desk
There’s a rhythm to it now— the dim lighting, the fireplace, the hours slipping away before dawn as I explore old memories and trace the winding path that brought me here.
I remember spending time with childhood friends at their house.
Their mom was a writer.
I noticed how she carved out space to write amidst the chaos of us kids—claiming time for herself in a way that stayed with me.
One afternoon, she peeled the label off a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli and stuck the whole thing in the oven.
It amuses me, in a way
A shortcut to get back to the page? I’m not sure.
I thought of her and that moment tonight.
Now, in my own kitchen, I create rhythms that let me return to writing—marinating protein, setting a timer, chopping vegetables, preheating the oven, boiling water—small steps that give me just enough space to sneak in another ten minutes at the keyboard. I’m often surprised (and slightly annoyed) when the timer goes off so fast.
Sometimes I step away — a short walk, a few stretches, a set of weights — just enough to clear my head.
The ideas keep moving, too. And I’m always glad to come back to the page.
I no longer crave action or parties.
I often find large gatherings a bit dizzying—a blur of surface catchups, conversations that never quite land.
I used to feel I needed that energy.
I’ve always cherished the smaller conversations—the ones that linger, where something gets revealed.
Now, after a weekend with friends, it feels good to return to myself.
To the quiet.
And somewhere along the way, the questions that once drove me mad—
Did I eat too much? Did I move enough? Will I drink tonight?—
stopped circling so loudly.
Those choices don’t feel like battles anymore.
They’ve become part of me.
Steady. Gentle. Integrated.
Even the occasional weekend with friends doesn’t unravel me.
I don’t overthink a meal out or a drink or two.
I return to myself—
to the rhythm, the quiet.
No guilt. No spiral. No noise.
And in this stillness, I’ve come to understand my husband more deeply, too—
how he can spend hours, days, wielding his craft, lost in concentration.
We’ve created a quiet rhythm at home. Parallel focus.
A soft coexistence that holds space for us both.
Maybe this is a different kind of quiet rebellion.
Not against tradition—
But against the noise that once kept me from myself.
I choose stillness.
And in it, I am becoming.
One quiet, late night at a time.
“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.”
— Anne Lamott
