For me, silence is not about giving up; it’s about stepping back to breathe, to reflect, and to confront the chaos within. It’s about creating space to listen—not to the noise of the world or even my own pain—but to something deeper. In this silence, I’m learning to face the thoughts and emotions I’ve been avoiding.
I’ve realized that silence doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing; it means I’m doing the hard work of healing. It’s a deliberate choice to step away from toxic environments and unhelpful conversations so I can focus inward. It’s a space where I can process my grief, my anger, my confusion—and begin to understand what these feelings are trying to teach me.
But let me be honest: when I choose silence, people often assume I’m retreating or giving up. They might think I’m weak or that I’ve surrendered to the weight of my circumstances. That couldn’t be further from the truth. My silence is not an act of defeat—it’s an act of survival. It’s me saying, “I need this time to heal.”
Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” As a Christian and Pastor, this verse has always been familiar to me—a call to step out of harm’s way and find refuge in God during life’s storms. But lately, as I sit in my grief and silence, this verse has taken on new meaning for me.
This isn’t just about escaping external harm; it’s about stepping out of my own way. The greatest noise I face right now isn’t coming from outside—it’s coming from within me. It’s the noise of my grief, my doubts, my fears, and the questions that keep swirling in my mind: “Why did this happen? What do I do now? Who am I without them?”
Silence has forced me to confront these questions head-on—to sit with them long enough to hear God’s voice amidst the chaos. And what I’m learning is that being still doesn’t mean avoiding pain; it means trusting God enough to face it. It means acknowledging that He is God—and that my struggles, my ego, and even my grief are not worth the worship I sometimes give them.
This isn’t easy for me to admit because vulnerability has never come naturally to me. But in this silence, I’m learning that healing requires honesty—honesty with myself and with God.
Grief is messy; healing is slow; and silence is uncomfortable. But it’s necessary for me right now. In this season of loss—loss of loved ones, loss of friendships, loss of identity—I need silence more than ever. It’s not about shutting out the world; it’s about creating space for healing.
In this silence, I’m confronting both internal and external demons—the doubts that haunt me at night and the wounds others have inflicted on me during the day. And while it feels like a battle some days, it also feels like surrender—not surrendering to pain but surrendering to God’s presence in the midst of it all.
I don’t have all the answers yet—I may never have them—but what I do have is faith that God is working in this silence even when I can’t see it clearly.
So if you see me quiet right now—if you notice me withdrawing—it’s not because I’ve given up or retreated from life. It’s because I’m doing what I need to do to heal. This silence is sacred for me; it’s where I’m finding strength again.
I don’t know how long this season will last—grief doesn’t follow a timeline—but for now, this is just me healing. And maybe you’re in your own season of silence too—grieving your own losses or wrestling with your own demons.
If you are, let me encourage you: don’t be afraid of the quiet moments. Step back if you need to; sit still long enough to hear God for who He truly is—and let your silence be a space where healing begins.
This is where I am right now—grieving but trusting God for healing in the midst of it all. This is just me healing…and maybe it can be you too.
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