We live in a world where silence is deemed an enemy of sorts. Where every idle moment seems to demand sound. The moment we go inside our cars or sit at a desk, our fingers instinctively reach for a dial: a podcast, a playlist, a news broadcast, endless Instagram or TikTok scrolling, anything to drown out the quiet. We are constantly bombarded by data, by the relentless noise of city living, and by the heavy weight of societal responsibilities. We stay so busy fulfilling them that we forget what we really need: a moment of silence. It is the ultimate freedom from the tyranny of noise, a rare rebellion against a world that demands our constant attention.
But what happens when we claim that freedom?
For my husband, twenty minutes of complete silence in the car is a welcome sanctuary. Most people avoid the quiet moments because they fear the internal noise that rushes in; they mistake silence for a prison of their own thoughts. But for him, choosing the quiet is where his freedom begins. On the road, with the steady rhythm of the pavement, the silence turns down the chaotic volume of the day-to-day. It frees him to finally listen to his own mind – to check in on his plans, to revisit his dreams, and to organize the things that usually get pushed aside. Where others might feel trapped by the sudden stillness, he finds the time to conduct an essential strategy session with himself.
For me, however, silence has taken a whole new meaning. It is the freedom not to plan, but to remember. It doesn’t look forward; it reaches back.
This past week, I was gifted days of quiet, early morning pockets of time. In those fragile moments right after opening my eyes, before the demands of the world could call my attention to a to-do list, everything was perfectly still. My thoughts didn’t hammer; they arrived in slow, gentle waves, recalling memories I thought I had long forgotten.
I soon understood why those memories were surfacing. The other day, I found out that my aunt had passed away. For my entire life, I knew her as a nun serving with the Missionaries of the Immaculate Conception order in Canada. She had chosen a life that many in our modern society wouldn’t understand, a life stripped of material noise, dedicated entirely to spiritual quiet. Because of her calling, I didn’t grow up with her around at all times. She would visit on and off through the years, which was always a monumental occasion for our family. Her perfect diction, her love for beautiful things, and the way she always made us feel seen are things I will always remember. As I grew older and moved to Los Angeles, our connection mainly shifted to constant emails.
Whenever I asked, she was always doing great. She was always okay, always praying for us, or praying for whatever tumultuous event the world was going through. Never once did she complain or hint that she was experiencing anything bad. And then, just like that, she died in her sleep.
Suddenly, my morning silence became filled with memories, tears, and the inevitable regret for lost time. But as the slow waves of grief washed over me, they also brought immense comfort. I know she is at peace. She passed away quietly in the loving arms of the Lord, whom she had so faithfully and lovingly served her entire life. In her death, just as in her life, she achieved the ultimate, beautiful freedom from this chaotic world.
When we finally step into total quiet, we realize that true silence is never actually empty. It has a distinct pattern, and it sounds entirely different depending on who is listening.
For my husband, it sounds like the steady, productive hum of a machine getting to work; the sorting of thoughts and the mapping of futures. For me, this week, it sounded like a sacred space for mourning and gratitude.
My aunt’s passing turned my silence into a welcome, urgent reminder: life is precious and fleeting. Choosing silence frees us from unnecessary anxiousness. We spend so much of our lives crippled by worry over every single little thing, but her quiet departure taught me that we always have the freedom to let go of that needless noise. That living for the moment is a gift we can give to ourselves and our loved ones.
Silence is a rare, necessary gift we all need in our lives. It is not an empty void to be feared; it is a moment of independence. It is the only place where we can take a break from the world to remember, to cherish, and to get back to our inner selves. It is in the quietest twenty minutes of our day that we can finally break free, look inward, breathe, and say to ourselves: “Hey, you are doing great. Life is great. Keep on going.”
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