There was a time when I thought silence was absence.
Of meaning.
Of love.
Of life.

I used to fill it with noise – music, movement, thoughts that ran like wild horses.
I feared what would come if I ever stopped.

But one day, silence didn’t feel empty.
It felt… alive.
It wasn’t a void.
It was a presence.
A whisper.

Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a gentle pull – like someone touching your arm in a crowded room, not to hurt or demand, but to say:
“I see you. I never left.”

And I cried.
Not because I was sad, but because I had forgotten.
How soft my own voice could be.
How much truth lived under all the survival.

That day I didn’t run.
I sat.
I let the silence hold me.
And it didn’t crush me.
It cradled me like a mother.

Since then, I return often to that quiet.
It doesn’t promise answers.
But it offers presence.
And sometimes, that’s more healing than clarity.

✨
I allow silence to hold me.
In its stillness, I remember who I am.