Where Silence Spoke First

The silence never frightened me.
It was the first thing in this world
that felt like home.

While others filled their days
with noise and easy laughter,
I leaned into the quiet
listened to the spaces
between heartbeat and breath,
where truth hides
when the world grows too loud.

Silence spoke to me
long before people did.

It revealed the scars
others pressed beneath their skin,
the secrets trembling
at the edges of their smiles,
the dreams they tried to bury
beneath routine.

In stillness,
I heard everything.

The hush of a room
carried more honesty
than any spoken word.
It told me where the fear lived,
where grief lingered,
where longing curled itself
into the corners of a soul.

People said silence was empty.
But I knew better
it was filled with echoes
of what they refused to name.

And in the deepest quiet,
where even shadows seemed to listen,
I felt God.

Not the God in stained glass
with a distant gaze,
but the one who moved softly
light brushing against my spirit,
presence humming beneath my ribs.

When the world grew sharp,
when the unseen pressed in,
when the air changed
and something crossed the threshold,
I retreated into silence
and silence answered back.

Others feared the quiet.
I feared the noise
that tried to drown
what I was meant to hear.

For even as a child,
I knew this truth:

Silence is where the veil thins.
Silence is where the hidden breathes.
Silence is where God
whispers your name.