Dear Diary,
Today my therapist and I found ourselves talking about silence.
Talking about silence. Now there’s an interesting sentence.
A Relationship I Didn’t Know I Had
I don’t think I had ever considered that I have a relationship with silence until today. And once we started pulling on that thread, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was invigorating…and emotionally draining to be sure.
I’m wired toward connection. Truthfully, we all are. But as an Enneagram 2 whose love language is quality time—specifically in conversation—connection runs in my veins, my heart, my soul.
Almost everything that comes out of my mouth is, in some way, a bid for connection.
Which means silence doesn’t feel neutral to me.
At best, it feels like disconnection.
At worst, rejection.
I’ve heard people talk about “comfortable silence.” The kind that’s born from not having to perform or fill the space. The kind that comes from simply being together.
I realized in my own therapy today that I don’t know what that feels like.
I’ve heard of it. It makes sense on a head level. But it wasn’t until today that I realized I can’t think of a single person I’ve experienced it with.
I certainly wouldn’t seek it out. But I also don’t know who I could end up sitting beside in silence and have it simply feel…comfortable. Peaceful.
Then it hit me.
Me.
I’m the only person I want to be silent with.
Even then, I sometimes catch myself talking to myself. But my nervous system is calm.
I don’t have to reach for connection because it’s already there.
I don’t have to brace for rejection because I truly enjoy time with myself.
Speaking Different Languages
That’s when I started wondering if silence means something different to different people.
My dad has told me more than once that silence feels existential, like death, literally. He traces it back to his years in radio, one of the few places where silence really is a problem. Dead air is awkward. So we fill it—with music, with crowd noise, with laugh tracks.
I have a friend who can break an awkward silence with the sound of a cricket (it’s absolutely hilarious when he does it). A testament to how universal that discomfort can feel.
But for some people, silence is something entirely different.
Silence is space.
Space to think.
To formulate.
To find the words.
This is my husband.
He doesn’t really enjoy fast-moving games like Catch Phrase or the 5-Second Rule. But, he’s incredibly good at strategy games where you have time to think through your next move.
You can probably imagine our conversations.
He needs silence to formulate a response.
Meanwhile, I’m experiencing those same seconds as disconnection (or rejection).
I rush to fill the silence. Or force an immediate response.
He gets flustered.
And just like that, we’re off to the marital boxing ring.
The irony is that he isn’t withdrawing.
He’s moving toward me.
Toward connection.
Connection I can’t see or hear yet.
I’m only beginning to learn how to sit in silence.
How to wait in it.
How to wait long enough to discover it isn’t rejection after all.
How to trust it isn’t a problem to solve.
And ultimately, how to trust him.
That he is finding his way to me, even when I can’t hear him coming.
A New Kind of Curiosity
I seek silence too. But only when I’m alone.
If someone else is there, my nervous system automatically experiences it differently.
Which makes me wonder about people who can genuinely experience peace in silence while sitting beside someone they love.
It’s honestly like trying to imagine a color I’ve never seen before.
What does that feel like?
Is it something that’s built over time?
Does it simply happen?
Is it part of someone’s temperament?
Indicative of a secure attachment?
Something one can practice?
Silence itself isn’t the problem.
The meaning we give it is.
Silence isn’t simply the absence of words.
It’s something we feel.
Something we interpret.
Something we create meaning from.
Maybe learning to love someone also means learning the language of their silence.
I don’t know.
My head is still spinning.
Mostly because I never expected to spend an hour talking about silence.
But here we are.
I walked into therapy thinking silence was just…silence.
I walked out realizing we all have a different experience of it.
Interesting.
A little unsettling.
And wonderfully curious.
Sincerely,
A therapist who’s figuring it out too.
Reflection Questions:
- Do you seek silence, avoid it, or experience it differently depending on who you’re with?
- If silence is a language, what do you think yours says?
- When someone grows quiet, what story does your mind naturally begin to tell?
- What helps silence feel peaceful rather than unsettling?
