Field Notes from a Human Life
It’s not silence, exactly.
It’s not the absence of noise. Not the soft murmur of a dishwasher at 9:30 p.m. Not a cancelled meeting. Not the background hush of a snowy street. It’s something else. A different kind of quiet. The kind that arrives slowly, like fog. The kind you don’t notice until it’s inside your bones.
The kind of quiet that makes you realize: Oh. That noise was coming from me.
There is a kind of peace that doesn’t announce itself
Most of us spend years chasing it. Through yoga. Through journaling. Through spreadsheets and therapy and decluttering and dog walks. We organize and optimize and unearth and unpack, believing that somewhere on the other side of all this effort, there will be... quiet.
And then one day, it just shows up.
Maybe you’re doing the dishes. Maybe you’re sitting in traffic. Maybe you're standing in a dressing room under fluorescent lights, surprised that you don’t hate what you see. And you think, I’m okay.
Not elated. Not transformed. Just... okay. Settled. Still.
That’s what quiet feels like.
It’s the sound of not performing
The older I get, the more I realize how loud it was in my head for most of my life. All that effort. All that proving. All those mental tabs open:
-
Am I being productive enough?
-
Do they think I’m competent?
-
Should I have said something different in that meeting?
-
Does this make me look like I have it all together?
Sometimes the noise was helpful. It kept me moving. Focused. Sharp.
Sometimes it kept me up at night.
I don’t want to make it sound like I’ve transcended into some perfect state of mindful enlightenment. I still spiral. I still overthink. I still rehearse conversations in my head like they’re closing arguments in a trial.
But lately, there’s more quiet. And it’s changing how I see things.
You start to hear the real things
When the noise dies down—even a little—you start to notice other frequencies:
The way you actually feel after a conversation.
The low hum of your body asking for rest.
The sudden clarity of I don’t want this anymore.
The even clearer one: I do.
These moments don’t shout. They barely speak. But they carry truth.
And truth, when you let it, has a way of rearranging your life gently and completely.
Quiet doesn’t mean nothing is happening
This part is hard. Especially for those of us who associate motion with meaning. If nothing is urgent, we assume something is wrong.
But sometimes, quiet is the answer. Not a pause before action. Not a holding pattern. Just the actual state of peace that comes when you stop trying to force what isn’t working.
When you don’t feel the need to narrate, justify, or perform your choices.
When you let the day be soft. Uneventful. Enough.
And then—something else happens
You start choosing differently.
Not to impress. Not to win. But because it feels good in your body. In your life.
You leave the event early and don’t explain.
You delete the app.
You eat dinner alone and don’t bring a book.
You stop apologizing for needing space.
You say no without promising a better yes next time.
Not because you’re trying to make a point. But because the noise is gone, and now you can hear yourself.
That’s what quiet feels like.
And once you’ve felt it, you’ll do anything to keep it.