Silence used to terrify me.
It was too loud, too heavy, too full of memories that screamed your absence. Every quiet night, every still morning — they felt like reminders that you were gone.

But slowly, silence has changed.
It is no longer only emptiness. It has become a space where I can breathe, where I can hear myself again. For so long, I defined myself by us — by who I was with you, by what we built together. When you left, I thought I was nothing without that identity.

But in the silence, I am beginning to find pieces of me I had forgotten.
The dreams I put aside.
The passions I left behind.
The voice that was always mine, even when it was drowned out by the sound of loving you.

I am not whole yet. Maybe I never will be in the same way again.
But I am no longer afraid of the quiet.
Because in it, I hear not only the echo of what I lost, but the whisper of who I am becoming.

Silence is no longer a prison.
It is a mirror.
And in it, I see myself — wounded, scarred, but alive.
And for the first time, that feels like enough.

Always and Forever

💬 What did you discover about yourself in the silence after loss? Share in the comments — someone may need to hear your strength today.