After the Silence

There is a quiet moment that follows every storm.

Not relief exactly; relief comes later, but a pause. A suspension. The air hasn’t decided what it will become yet. The body is still listening. The mind hasn’t rushed in to narrate what just happened.

This is the space where truth tends to surface.

We live in a world that rewards speed: quick recovery, quick answers, quick conclusions. But healing rarely moves that way. Awakening doesn’t announce itself with certainty. It arrives softly, asking to be noticed rather than declared.

In my own life, the most meaningful shifts didn’t happen in moments of triumph or collapse, but in the quiet afterward, when nothing was demanding my attention and I was finally able to hear what remained.

That space is not empty.
It’s fertile.

It’s where memory loosens its grip.
It’s where identity softens.
It’s where something more honest begins to form.

If my books are the long arcs of this journey, these reflections are the breaths in between. Not answers, orientations. Not conclusions, companions.

If you find yourself in that pause right now, don’t rush to fill it.
Listen.

Something is already speaking.