I didn't realise how afraid of silence I had become until I tried to sit in it. The moment I put the phone down and didn't immediately pick it back up, something uncomfortable rose to the surface.
I filled every gap. The commute, the cooking, the moments between tasks. Podcasts, music, scrolling — anything to keep the quiet at bay. I told myself I was being productive. I was learning, staying informed, making use of the time.
But I think, if I'm honest, I was avoiding something. Not God exactly — but the version of myself that only shows up when everything else goes quiet.
When I finally stopped — really stopped — I didn't find emptiness. I found grief I hadn't processed. Questions I'd been outrunning. And underneath all of it, something steady. Something that had been there the whole time, waiting for me to be still enough to notice.
Silence isn't empty. It's where God has room to speak.