I used to hate silence. It was uncomfortable, heavy, almost suffocating. On phone calls, even the briefest pause would send me into a quiet panic. I would rush to fill the void, fearing that silence meant disinterest, awkwardness, or something unspoken lurking between the lines. Silence felt like absence—of connection, of security, of understanding.
But life has a way of forcing you to sit with the very things you try to escape. I found myself surrounded by silence, not just in phone calls but in moments where I once sought noise as a distraction. At first, it was unbearable. Silence wrapped itself around me, pressing in from all sides, and I wanted to run. But where would I go? How long could I keep avoiding it?
So, I stopped fighting it. I let silence sit with me. I let it settle in my bones, not as an intruder but as a companion. And as I did, something shifted. I used to be afraid of being alone. Silence felt heavy, and I thought loneliness meant something was missing. But now, I see it differently. When I’m alone, I hear my own thoughts clearly. I don’t have to pretend, to please, or to explain myself. I can just be. I can breathe, think, and grow without distraction.
Spending time alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. It means I’m learning to enjoy my own company. It means I’m giving myself space to understand who I truly am. And the more I embrace solitude, the more I realize—I am enough.
Now, when the other end of the phone call goes quiet, I don’t panic. I don’t scramble for words or rush to fill the space. Instead, I let the silence ground me. I take a deep breath. I allow myself to breathe, to feel, to be silent. And in that moment, I am present—not lost in overthinking, not desperate to be heard, but simply existing in the quiet.
I used to think silence was emptiness, but now I see it as fullness. It’s the space where thoughts settle, where emotions surface, where I meet myself without the world’s noise interfering. Silence no longer scares me. It holds me, and I let it.
