Where Silence Speaks

Sometimes the heaviest things we carry are not seen, nor spoken, only felt.

When I was child, to be sad or unhappy was quite simple and most times predictable. I was sad whenever I failed a test, when I got scolded, or when something small didn’t go my way. Sadness was tied to moments; clear, visible reasons one could point to. And just as easily as sadness came, it left. A good meal, ice cream/candy, laughter with my sisters, or just a good distraction, and everything felt right again.

Growing older, sadness or my understanding of it, is no longer simple. Over the past few years, I have found myself experiencing sadness in uncertain ways. Not the type that comes and goes quickly, but the type that lingers in the background of my life. The type that doesn’t always have a clear reason. It’s strange, because from the outside, everything might look normal, But inside, there’s this heaviness that doesn’t lift.

I have heard people say that sadness is a choice, that no one/thing can make you sad unless you allow it. And in some ways, I understand that. I understand that we each react to things differently, that our temperaments shape how we feel, how we deeply feel. Some people are naturally more optimistic, others are more reflective, more sensitive. I think I fall somewhere in between, or maybe a little more on the side that feels things deeply.

But I have also come to realize that sadness isn’t always something you can simply choose your way out of.

There’s the sadness that comes from loss, the loss of loved ones, of relationships, of opportunities. There’s the sadness of things not working out the way you planned, of watching doors close that you were so certain would open. And there’s another kind of sadness,… the one that feels harder to name.

The kind where nothing is exactly wrong, yet everything feels heavy.

There are times when I try to pull myself out of it. I try to distract myself, to be productive, to be present for others. Sometimes, helping people feels like a way to step outside of my own thoughts, to quiet the noise in my head. And for a while, it works. I laugh, I engage with people, I feel almost like myself again.

But then I am alone.

And it comes back.

Not loudly nor dramatically, just quietly, like it never really left. Like it was only waiting.

I think part of it comes from this stage of life. The space after finishing university, where everything feels uncertain. You spend years building expectations, imagining what life will look like, believing things will fall into place in a certain way. And then reality comes, and it looks… you know…different.

Slower.

Unclear.

You look around and see people moving forward, progressing, achieving things you once imagined for yourself. And you start to wonder if you’re falling behind. If you missed something. If you’re not doing enough. If you’re not enough.

This quiet comparison is exhausting. The constant reflection. The feeling of being stuck while everything else seems to be moving.

Sometimes, I want to reach out. To explain what’s going on inside me. But I find that I don’t even have the words for it. How do you explain something you don’t fully understand yourself? So instead, I stay quiet. I try to figure it out on my own. I tell myself it’s just a phase, that it will pass.

Maybe it will.

But in the meantime, I am learning something about sadness.

I am learning that it is not always loud. It doesn’t always come with tears (or sometimes it comes with a bucketful…). Sometimes, it looks like tiredness. Like overthinking. Like silence. Like smiling and still feeling some distance between yourself and everything around you.

I am also learning that I am not alone in this.

So many people are carrying things we cannot see. We pass each other every day (laughing, talking, existing) and yet underneath it all, there are stories, struggles, uncertainties that are unspoken. Maybe sadness is not something that isolates us, but something that connects us in ways we don’t realize.

And even in this, I am trying to find meaning, to find God.

I wonder where he is in this silence and why he feels distant when I need clarity the most. But then I recognize moments (small and almost unnoticeable) where I feel that he hasn’t left at all. He is in the quiet strength that keeps me going. In the fact that even now, I am still here.

I don’t fully understand this season of my life, but I am beginning to accept that not everything needs to make sense immediately. Maybe this is what ‘becoming’ looks like. Not clarity, not certainty, but growth in the middle of confusion.

And maybe this sadness isn’t here to break me but shape me.

To slow me down.

To make me reflect.

To remind me that I am still human, still learning, still on a journey that is unfolding one day at a time.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even have most of them.

But I am here.

And for now, that is enough.

Hopefully.