I’ve often heard it said that the pause in a conversation can hold more meaning than the words themselves. I never truly understood that until the quiet moments I shared with my mom during her final years. We’d sit out back in her yard, the hum of birds and breeze around us, exchanging gentle conversation. Then, just as naturally, our words would drift away into silence.
She’d gaze out over her garden, eyes distant, full of memories I couldn’t reach. And in my own discomfort, I’d try to fill the silence—asking questions, making small talk, attempting to cheer her up. I thought I was helping. But now, I wonder if I was interrupting something sacred. Maybe, just maybe, she was content in that stillness. Maybe those quiet moments with her daughter were bringing her peace that words couldn’t provide.
How often do we rush to fill the silence—especially when it feels uncertain or emotional? We do it in conversations, in our caregiving roles, and even in our relationship with ourselves. It’s the awkward pause, or the idea of something possibly being wrong, that we have. Yet there’s a richness in stillness that’s so easy to miss.
Over time, I’ve come to appreciate silence in a new way. It greets me in my garden, where the gentle rustle of leaves and the smell of earth remind me that life moves at its own pace. It holds me on long walks, where each step becomes a meditation, and I can hear my own thoughts more clearly. And now, even in the soft breaths of two new kittens curled up on my desk, I find sweet comfort in the quiet.
These moments remind me that silence isn’t empty—it’s full. It’s full of memory, reflection, healing, and connection—and often, much-needed connection to ourselves. Whether we’re sitting with a loved one or alone, there’s something profound in choosing not to rush the quiet—not to feverishly get the next task done, but to flow with what comes next and give ourselves the gift of the moment.
So, the next time you find yourself in a pause, resist the urge to fill it. Let it linger. Let it speak. You may discover that what arises in that stillness is exactly what was needed.
Hugs,
Cyndi