There was a time when I would fill a room with words, flitting from thought to thought like a humming bird drawn to petunias, wings aflutter, scattering them with flourish to whoever cared to listen. But lately, I find myself inhabiting silences more often: indulging in long pauses, lingering stillness and a shrinking desire to converse unless there’s real purpose to it. It isn’t loneliness. It isn’t fatigue. It’s something I haven’t yet fully named.
I now observe how many people in my circles belong to the silent society, wearing the mantle of soft hush with ease, even amid surrounding cacophony. They are neither provoked nor inspired to break their carefully constructed calms just to please people or to prove their points. They are happy to participate when initiated with a query. They are not story-toppers, eager to interrupt with a spiel of their own.
And I am slowly descending into this new zone, where incessant talking has become a trial I would rather desist from than indulge in. It may not be the best path to take in a world that is smashing verbal aces with aplomb and gaining brownie points for being speakers with personality and punch. As I traverse this new path of quietude, I ask myself: What is silence, truly? A retreat? A rebellion? A release? And of people who have been impressing me with their own versions of reticence, I have wondered: Are they people without a mind to speak or do they simply choose to keep their minds under wraps, knowing how what they say might not be of much consequence? I recently came across a psychology article that startled me in its resonance.
Silence, it said, is often a sign of autonomy, not withdrawal. People who seek solitude tend to have an internal locus of control; they’re not escaping others — they’re choosing themselves, deliberately. While silent people may not be introverts, they find what’s going on around them substantially overwhelming. They find their self-contained solitude aids their vitality and mental energy. They are brimming with thoughts, but refrain from voicing them aloud because, often, they fall on deaf ears (of people who listen less and speak more) or they find alternative routes to vent their thoughts more effectively.
The trait is so blurry and hard to define that it can sit either on the plane of shyness — where social mixing becomes a daunting task or it can perch on the plane of “reflective introversion”. I am still unable to decipher where my newly acquired quietness belongs.
A bit of both, perhaps. And that’s something that might be true of most people who talk less in open circles. They may have groups where they let their hair down and chatter, have loud belly laughs and make memories they may not want the world to catch wind of —because they are shy to be known as funky and footloose in front of a society that is too quick to judge. This is social fear that ignites silences in people. But here’s another side to it. What if silence is not fear, not shyness, not withdrawal — but wisdom? What if it is an intentional stepping back to observe, to process, and to simply be in a world that has made being visible a full-time occupation?
I read somewhere that people who choose silence over social noise often have an internal compass that needs no external calibration. They don’t need to be seen or heard to feel valid. Their self-worth doesn’t hang on feedback. They aren’t running the race, and hence, don’t need to shout their arrival. And yet, this isn’t an argument for silence either. Because silence, too, in excess, can be isolating. It can be misunderstood. It can be a slippery slope into disconnection. When you go too long without expressing yourself, the world begins to fill in the blanks for you — often inaccurately. People might label you aloof, arrogant, indifferent. And worse, they might stop reaching out altogether. So, as I sit with this ambiguity, I realise that silence is not a one-size-fits-all virtue. It wears different cloaks for different people: peace, protection, a pause before expression. And sometimes, it is merely a tired sigh the world doesn’t hear. I still don’t know what my silence means. I only know that it is mine — and for now, it is the sound of me listening to myself.
(The writer is a Dubai based author and a writing coach)
