The Quiet That Found Me

For most of my life, silence felt like a threat. Growing up, it often meant tension was in the air—something unspoken, something waiting to erupt. I learned to fill every empty space with conversation, movement, and noise. It was easier to stay busy than to sit still with whatever the quiet might reveal.

I carried that habit for years, across countries, jobs, and chapters of my life. Honduras, the U.S., Nicaragua, Costa Rica, China—wherever I landed, I surrounded myself with people, tasks, and responsibilities. My mind was a constant loop of “what’s next?” I spoke when I didn’t need to. I agreed to things I didn’t want. I moved so fast I barely noticed the days passing.

But life has a way of forcing you to pause. Loss, grief, and healing stripped me down to the essentials. I faced the conversations I had avoided, let go of the people who no longer walked beside me, and allowed myself to feel the years of pain I had kept tucked away. I burned through anger, hurt, and longing until there was nothing left to spill.

Now, silence feels different.

It is no longer an empty space to fill but a rich, steady presence. I crave it—not to hide from life, but to watch it unfold without the need to control every piece. In the quiet, I see the light shift in my home as the day moves on. I hear my own breath. I feel my shoulders loosen. I notice that life keeps going whether I push or simply let it be.

And here is the unexpected gift: I am happy.

Not because life turned out exactly as I planned—far from it—but because it turned out in a way that feels right. The chaos has softened into something livable, even beautiful. I have work I care about, relationships that matter, and a deep trust that I can handle what comes next.

Silence no longer swallows me. It holds me. It reminds me that I have survived, that I have grown, and that I am exactly where I am meant to be.