People often say, “Silence is golden” or “I love when it’s quiet.”

But for some of us, silence isn’t peaceful.

It’s heavy.

It’s an extra weight that settles in and reminds us of everything that’s missing.

My house always had noise. The hum of the oxygen concentrator. The television playing in the background. The phone ringing.

Now that Mama is gone, it’s quiet when no one is here. So quiet that you probably could hear a pin drop.

It’s been a quiet year and a half.

The sounds of Navi’s claws clicking across the floor. Her meows as she searched for me or demanded food. The little noises I never realized I would miss.

It’s been a quiet seven months.

Silence is also heavy when there are people you used to talk to, people who were once part of your everyday life, and now you don’t hear from them anymore.

It’s been a long eight months and beyond.

I don’t like silence.

It gives me too much time to sit in my own head, replaying conversations, wondering about things I’ll never know the answers to. It invites questions that have no resolutions and stories that will never get an ending.

Silence can be dangerous that way.

It tempts me to reach out when I know I shouldn’t, searching for closure that may not exist.

It makes depression linger longer because loneliness echoes louder when there’s nothing else to drown it out.

I miss meeting people for coffee. Lunch. Wandering around a store with no real purpose.

These days, most outings are grocery runs and dropping people off where they need to go. Sometimes I wonder if I forget things on purpose just so I have a reason to go back out and experience another brief moment of human connection, even if it’s only exchanging a few words before heading to the self-checkout.

Silence is a constant reminder of all the things I wish I had said, all the things I wish I had done, and all the moments I didn’t realize would become memories.

But silence isn’t entirely bad.

Sometimes it’s scary because it forces me to look inward. There are no distractions, no responsibilities demanding my attention, no one needing me every second of the day.

When the silence came, I lost more than people and routines.

I lost my purpose.

For years, I was a caregiver. My days revolved around making sure someone else was okay.

Now I’m no longer a caregiver.

I’m a wife.

I’m a mom.

And while those roles matter deeply, I still find myself asking who I am beyond them and what I’m supposed to be doing now.

Maybe that’s what silence is trying to teach me.

Maybe beneath all the loneliness, grief, and unanswered questions is an opportunity to discover who I am in this next chapter.

I’m not there yet.

Most days, I still don’t like the silence.

But I’m trying to listen to what it has to say.

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