Silence and Solitude

Sometimes when I wake up, I just lie in bed and listen to the silence.

I sleep with earplugs, so the silence is loud in my ears. Dense. Almost humming. I can hear my heart beating. I can hear my breath moving in and out. I can hear my thoughts before they’ve fully taken shape. I can hear the swirling of sensations that don’t need words.

My body is loud—a whole universe of sound—but it’s only my sound. No one else’s. Nothing intruding. Nothing pulling at me.

There’s a relief that comes in that kind of solitude. A weight I didn’t know I was carrying loosens and slides off my back. I feel light and heavy at the same time, grounded and unbound.

It’s just me.
And the weight of my dog’s head resting on my leg—one of the most comforting sensations I know. A quiet reminder of warmth, of presence, of shared stillness that doesn’t ask for anything.

Before the day begins—before anything is asked of me, before I step into my roles and respond to names and needs—it’s just me. Nothing to perform. Nothing to hold together. No one to be for anyone else.

I used to take this kind of solitude for granted. I lived inside it without noticing it. I would yearn for it even though it was always available, assuming it required the right conditions—distance, beauty, escape. A mountain top. A creek. Somewhere untouched.

Now these moments feel precious. Almost sacred. And I don’t need to go anywhere to find them. I don’t need the right conditions. They show up in the smallest spaces: the quiet before anyone is awake, the stillness after everyone has gone to sleep. The quick showers. The bathroom breaks. The moments I step outside, close my eyes, and take one full breath.

It’s always available. Always here. That subtle sense of coming home—not to a place, but to myself.

My life is more chaotic than it’s ever been. My time is rarely my own. And yet, I am more at peace. More settled. More at home than I’ve ever felt.

The contrast between my life before and my life now is stark, but that contrast has revealed something I couldn’t see before. I feel expanded. I feel the whole universe in me and around me—just like I did when I gave birth.

Be still and know that I am God.

The stillness is always here.
And so is God.