Silence

The Fear of Silence: Grief in the Stillness I am afraid of the quiet. I am afraid of the stillness of the night. When I am alone and everything around me is silent, my mind begins its relentless cycle—replaying every moment of Sana’s life. Every joy, every struggle, every what-if. Sana used to say, “Your brain never stops working.” She was right. And now, more than ever, I understand that grief has a way of amplifying that restlessness. I immerse myself in work, filling my days with tasks and responsibilities, not just out of necessity but as a means of survival. Keeping busy feels like the only way to quiet my thoughts, even if only temporarily. When that isn’t enough, I turn to medication—to dull the pain, to create a barrier between my heart and my memories, to make the quiet feel less threatening. But deep down, I know this isn’t a sustainable solution. I can’t be busy 24/7. I can’t numb myself forever. As I reflect, I want others who are grieving to know: it’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to fear the silence. It’s okay to struggle with the stillness. Grief is unpredictable, and it manifests in ways that don’t always make sense. Now I understand why meditation has always felt impossible for me. The moment I try to be still, it’s as if my mind takes it as a cue to flood me with the hardest memories. Silence isn’t peace for me—it’s a doorway to pain. But maybe, in time, I will learn to sit with it. To allow the memories to come without breaking me. To find comfort in the quiet instead of fearing it. Maybe one day, I won’t need to run from the stillness.