Why Silence...

Feels So Loud

After a long crazy week of trying to survive the short days that slip away too quickly and realizing that my daily to-do list wasn’t completed not even half of it, I catch myself wondering how that’s even possible. My weeks are so hectic nowadays that by the time the weekend arrives I already feel like a zombie.

On Friday night when I finally crawl into bed, I motivate myself for the next two days daydreaming that I might sleep in on Saturday and not leave bed as single people do. But for the last eight years, that dream rarely happened because I have something called children.

These little human beings are the ones who wake up at five in the morning and decide for you that it is time to wake up. You are still half-asleep but the circus has already begone without you. Then comes the inevitable chorus of “Mama!” several times followed suddenly by silence. A normal person might think silence is lovely but NO!. Silence means something happened and that’s never a good sign. Immediately I jump out of bed like an Olympic sprinter to perform damage control.

Anyone would say that weekends are for rest, no work, no pressure, pure freedom. Theoretically YES. But entertaining children is what I call free social work and it’s just as exhausting, especially when yours are very active. You are always in motion, always thinking and always trying to keep up with the little ones.

By the end of the day, when the cats are finally asleep, can the mice catch their breath? Not really. There’s no energy left, to dance on the table anymore. I find myself drifting straight toward my comfortable couch, sinking into it like a survivor. Wrapped in the quiet hug of the cushions I start to notice something... there is no noise.

This precise moment brings me back to myself, back to feeling like myself. I can finally hear my own thoughts again softly speaking to me. It’s a fluid conversation, unbroken by noise or duty just pure harmony.

But the longer I sit in that quiet, the more I have noticed how loud silence can actually be. At first it’s gentle, the hum of the refrigerator. Somewhere in the distance the faint ticking of the clock that suddenly feels rhythmic almost alive. Beneath those sounds, there’s something more intimate, something I had forgotten to listen to was myself.

My thoughts begin to rise like bubbles reaching the surface after being held down too long. They sound hesitant at the beginning as if unsure they are allowed to speak. Then slowly they gained courage. They remind me of things I’ve buried under chores, school lunches and endless “Mama!” calls. They ask questions, I’ve been too busy to face: Am I truly tired or am I simply drained of meaning? Why do I run from pauses as if they were empty spaces instead of invitations?

The silence stretches wider. It stops being absence and starts feeling like a room spacious, breathable and full of echoes. Every tiny sound becomes a reminder that I am alive: the creak of the sofa, the whisper of my own breath, the heartbeat I almost never notice. I realize how much noise I carry inside even when the house is still, the mental checklists, the background guilt of not doing enough and the invisible performance of being needed.

In that quiet, everything I’ve ignored comes forward like children seeking attention, feelings I postponed, dreams that waited politely in the corner or ideas I promised to revisit “when things slow down.” They all return tender but persistent. It’s overwhelming and comforting at once a reunion with myself.

Somehow in that orchestra of thought and emotion, I start to understand again. Silence! it turns out! isn’t the absence of life; it’s where life finally becomes audible.

I’ve started to think that silence isn’t a luxury but more like maintenance. The same way the skin needs rest between products, the soul needs moments without words or noise. When I give myself those tiny pauses, I remember that being alive is not the same as being busy.

Motherhood taught me that silence is not guaranteed but it can be created. It can hide in a slow inhale, before answering another question or in those two minutes before the kettle whistles. It doesn’t demand hours, it just asks for presence. In that stillness, I stop performing my life and start living it again.

Silence has a texture. It holds warmth memory and even forgiveness. It reminds me that I’m not only a mother, a partner or a professional. I’m also a woman who thinks, feels and dreams. When I return to the noise, I carry a little of that stillness with me like a quiet glow under the surface.

I don’t have to escape to find peace. I just have to pause long enough to hear it.

Continue reading the Journal:
• Journal — First Page
• The Space Between Then and Now
• Chapter I — Birth of Strength
• Sehnsucht
• Mom, You're Boring
• Asking Myself