Ever since I came over to my parents’ house, I’ve been told that I’m too quiet but I guess I just don’t have much to say but they take it like quietness is something to be fixed, like a loose screw in the machinery of life that needs tightening. Over time, I’ve learned that being characteristically quiet isn’t really lacking words but about understanding the weight of them.
Sometimes people forget that there’s a certain peace that lives in silence. A kind that doesn’t require validation, listens to the world and finds meaning in the spaces between noise. People mistake it for shyness or indifference, but what they don’t see is that silence is mostly where I gather strength. When Justin Bieber said in one of his songs “sit with me here in the silence…’ I could totally relate.
When I walk into a room, I don’t rush to fill it with my voice. I observe. I read the air and feel the pulse of the place before I speak. And when I do, I make sure my words carry purpose not volume.
Being quiet doesn’t mean being invisible or not wanting to have anything to do with the people around but my family misinterprets it. Silence could mean being deeply present. Watching life unfold, noticing the tremor in a friend or relative’s voice when they say they’re fine and hearing the unsaid words between laughter. If one talks too much they skip the important parts of the conversation or miss cues from their speech partners.
I’ve come to love my quietness, refusing to bother what anyone thinks or defines it as. Being characteristically quiet isn’t never absence, it’s an essence. It’s how most people make sense of the world, how they love and heal.
So yup, it’s totally okay to be characteristically quiet, because in that peace, there’s music, softness and deep thought.
