There was a time when quiet made me uncomfortable.
I used to think a quiet house meant something was missing. Someone should be here. Something should be happening. There should be plans, noise, somewhere to go, someone to call, somewhere to go. I think I spent a lot of time trying to fill every empty space before I ever learned what it felt like to just let one exist.
Lately, the house has been quiet.
Not always, obviously. There are still kids, messes, dishes, questions, music, cartoons, and the general chaos that comes with being a person who lives a real life. But there are more pockets of quiet now. And I’ve started noticing them.
The kind of quiet where you make something to eat and don’t immediately reach for your phone. The kind where you sit for a while without needing to accomplish anything. The kind where a book stays open beside you because you actually intend to come back to it.
There is something strange about realizing that a life doesn’t have to be constantly happening to be a good one.
I’ve been home more. I’ve been alone more. I’ve been slower.
And I don’t think I realized how much I needed that.
There are parts of being alone that can feel heavy. There are people I miss. People I mourn. Conversations I sometimes wish I could have again. Old routines that still cross my mind. But there is also a version of solitude that feels like coming back to yourself.
You start hearing your own thoughts again.
You notice what you actually like.
You remember that you don’t have to be available to everyone all the time.
You put something on the television because you want to watch it, not because you need background noise. You clean a room and then actually enjoy sitting in it. You open the windows. You make dinner. You take your time.
Nothing about it is particularly remarkable and that’s what makes it remarkable.
I’ve spent so much of my life in recent years thinking about the next thing that I didn’t always recognize the ordinary things as part of my life while they were happening.
Now, I’m trying to.
The quiet house isn’t empty.
It’s lived in.
And for the first time in a while, I’m not rushing to fill it with more.
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