In Silence
A reflection on silence—read or listened to—how it can wound, how it can hold, and what it asks of us when words fall short.
The holidays have passed now. The pain has arrived again, the realities of life hitting close to home—sooner than expected.
Sometimes silence can be more painful than words. A part inside just wants to hide like I did as a kid.
When I’ve done something I think is worthy of attention, hearing nothing can feel like running into a brick wall.
Before, I didn’t want to feel the pain. It was easier not to take the chance.
The little ones inside know this very well. They never miss a chance to remind me whenever it happens, especially those who have a hard time sleeping.
It really hurts when they’re in the room. But they need to be. That’s where they live—in my heart.
No fear, the eternal optimist is still here. Now I know that silence can also be my friend, a way of giving recognition to ourselves—both living and deceased.
On dark days, I find it comforting to talk to myself, sometimes praying, sometimes just remembering how special a certain person was to me, and still is.
I wonder what it would be like to live in silence and be on a silent retreat for several weeks—not talking to others, only myself.
Maybe it would help me understand this conflicting relationship I have with silence, as well as with words.
But then again, I wonder how it would impact others in my life who have been there for me, who have seen my light as a mirror of their own, and grown used to it.
That’s the light of invisibility—my Core Self—who I was born to be.
Without this awareness, I fear it would feel like death even though I’m still alive. Like being a zombie in a Steven King movie. Or, in real life, like living with someone with Alzheimer’s—or having it yourself, at least for a while.
Then, a life still breathing, but no longer answering back.
In this silence, I find myself thinking about families shattered by violence—about what happens when despair grows so great that it turns inward and then outward—destroying those in their path, often the ones who loved them the most.
I try to imagine the pain of a child who felt unseen for so long that silence became an act of annihilation—and the unimaginable loss left in its wake—over and over again, through time—for a world witnessing it and feeling helpless, waiting for change.
I grieve for those who knew them—and were touched by their hearts—and touched theirs, even if a sliver of light.
I grieve for all of us, as these moments are becoming more commonplace—met with noise, judgment, or a silence that fails to hold—rather than the kind that might calm the terrified child inside.
Sadly, some find power in our fear—while others find relief in their power. History tells us how that story ends. It’s hard to be silent.
I wish I knew the answer. Let us take a moment of silence—hoping that this will be a time when we can all look inside ourselves and calm the little ones who know this pain too well—and just want the noise to stop.
I tell them, “You have a right to feel the way you do. And deserve to be listened to, so you can feel the love you have always deserved. We all do.”
Taking a deep, soulful breath, I can sense they know I am listening—and that they aren't alone anymore.
It feels good to tuck the littles in—and to think about those I have lost, some still alive that I haven’t seen for a while.
I pray that they are all okay and will soon know they are home again, and it’s safe to be there.
Imagine moving closer to your own in whatever way feels right—perhaps a warm glance or even a hug. Let them know you can see both the beauty and the sharp edges. That you can deal with the pain in life, and trust that it heals.
“The world breaks everyone,” Ernest Hemingway wrote, “and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”
If you may, don't just read in silence. Listen to me read these words to you, if you aren’t already—or read them out loud to yourself, or to someone close to heart.
Trust the value of your voice—especially in silence, when no one is listening.
Better yet, write some of your own words. Create some art—even when you don't know the meaning yet. Someone’s trash can be a treasure to someone else.
Good night… and God bless. I’ll always be listening, even when anonymity is preferred. I'll still be holding the light—until you find your own.
Presence is our biggest gift—in silence.
Confidentiality note: The above photo is shared with written consent. If my words contain any resemblance to your own life, it is both coincidental and universal—reminding us that our stories echo one another in the shared fabric of human experience.
Gratitude: In appreciation of those who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine. Let me know how you feel about the artwork in the photo above. I’m sure the artist would appreciate your sentiments.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.