 The first time I heard silence, I thought I was dying.
It wasn’t the kind of silence where nothing was happening. It was the kind that stripped me bare—louder than any screaming, more honest than any mirror. And it came after a full-body breakdown I pretended was just “burnout.” I had just screamed at my daughter for spilling juice on the couch. Again. She looked at me like I wasn’t me. Like she didn’t recognize this woman with shaking hands and dead eyes. I didn’t either. I cleaned up the juice. Apologized through a lump in my throat. Then, I locked myself in the bathroom, slid down the wall, and whispered to the tile, “What is wrong with me?” But the tile didn’t answer. That night, after everyone went to bed, I stood barefoot on the porch, holding a mug I didn’t drink from. I wasn’t crying. Not anymore. I’d already cried so much I was dry. Just still. And then the silence came. Not just outside—inside. Like my spirit finally told everything else to shut up so it could speak. And what it whispered shocked me: “You’re not broken. You’re remembering.” I felt it in my stomach first, then my spine, like a pulse waking up. You’re remembering… what matters. You’re remembering… who you are. You’re remembering… who you were before survival buried your soul. The next morning, I didn’t pretend to be okay. I moved slower. Softer. My daughter hugged me and said, “You feel safe again.” She didn’t say I looked happy. She said I felt safe. Kids know. They always know. And something cracked open right there. Not in a sad way. In a holy way. Like my soul had been under lock and key, and I finally said the password. Silence. Stillness. Truth. I started talking to my ancestors again. Not in a ceremonial, dramatic way. Just quietly. In the kitchen. While stirring rice. Like: “Grandma, I’m sorry I’ve been so loud. I’m listening now.” “Who was I before I learned to perform pain as strength?” “Why does healing feel like grief and grace at the same time?” I didn’t hear words. But I felt answers. In the way the light came through the window. In the way my kids giggled on the floor. In the way I stopped needing validation from systems that never loved me anyway. This is not a comeback story. It’s a remembering story. The version of me that always knew peace was possible was still in there. She just got buried under deadlines, shame, guilt, fear, pressure, and pretending. Not broken. Just buried. Not lost. Just quiet. Not gone. Just waiting. If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re crumbling, here’s what I want to tell you: You are not broken. You are remembering. And your soul is so proud of you for showing up again. Even when you’re messy. Even when you fall apart. Even when the people around you don’t get it. You’re not here to perform perfection. You’re here to embody truth. So take a breath. Feel the silence. Let your spirit speak. You’ll hear it. Right underneath the noise, it’s been there the whole time… “You’re not broken. You’re remembering who the hell you are.”
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 She stared at the words on the screen and instantly was mesmerized. So many words had flashed across it so many times. This was Mary's daily routine - wake up, stretch, use the bathroom, and log on. What was so different this time? He wanted to meet. So did she, but should they? And on Halloween of all times? She brushed it out of her mind for a second (or tried to) just as she was brushing her long, silky black tresses over her shoulder.
Moving on to the next piece of reading material, words of his previous notes and comments came back to mind. The way they were so articulately expressed - such emotion in such a short amount of words. As a lifetime lover of words, she appreciated the way Mark was able to express so much with so little space. It wasn't an e-book or even a famed college professor's report she had read those words from. They were responses (sometimes funny, sometimes intelligent, sometimes sweet) to a political blog on the internet. The blog was hers and this had been going on for a few years now. Mark read another entry from his favorite political blog - and then another sweet message from the author. Something seemed to be calling him to action. His mind couldn't yet comprehend what that action might be, but he just had this feeling that couldn't be placed. He decided to type up his thoughts and click send. He wondered if that was the right move. "Ah, hell get a grip, man. She ain't lookin' for you. Have you looked in the mirror lately? Do you seriously think she'd be interested in some random older stranger who reads her blog? Seems kinda creepy. You might be a nice guy and you may have had some interesting word exchanges, but she don't really know you. OK, now stop talking yourself and get back to work." Eager for her answer, he hit the refresh button to see if she had responded back yet. Mary looked forward to Mark's comments and also his own writeups. They both did this for a living. He had this way of making her think and seemed to really get what she was saying. He asked the perfect questions to complement her writing. She had taken up reading his blog as well. Even more than enjoying his writing and comments, she felt connected to him. The feelings were different to her at first, but whenever he didn't leave a comment, she was disappointed he wasn't there. Mark felt there was something more between him and Mary besides the writing commonality. He just hoped it wasn't a mistake to hit send. In his mind, he knew it probably wasn't the smartest thing though, since they had both gone through a divorce recently. He felt more for her than just someone to fall back on during tough times. As Mary stood at the airport terminal awaiting Mark's arrival, she began to feel uneasy. Would he be as open to meeting her if he knew who (or what) she was? She made the mistake of revealing that to her now ex-husband, and boy, was that a mistake. "Oh, woman up and take a chance! The grass just might be greener this time," she told herself. Just then, Mark started walking toward her. She instantly knew it was him from the feeling she got inside. His arms wrapped around her in an embrace and she returned the gesture. The connection seemed magical somehow, but neither of them could place it. Since it was late and there wasn't much else open but the airport in Mary's small town, they opted for a moonlit walk near the creek. Mary was thinking this could be a good or bad move, depending on a few things. Stopping to glance at the beautiful silent waters, they made eye contact and brushed each other's lips. Unable to stop, they sat in the green grass, encircling. As they intertwined, they failed to notice the changes taking place. It was almost sunrise - no wait, the light was coming from above and it wasn't the sun. It was time for the celebration of the 'spirits'. Silly the impression people always got of spirits - damned people who had passed on? Ghosts? Hardly. They were from elsewhere, true. But the elsewhere was not a place of the dead, but of the living - just not those born entirely of the race on this planet. "Great, now he's going to know my secret, whether I want him to or not," thought Mary. But that thought quickly faded when she noticed the tell-tale light green skin tone now apparent on Mark as well. |
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