When the Quiet Turned Holy

I used to be terrified of quiet.

In the early days of recovery, silence felt like punishment. Like the absence of noise meant the presence of shame. I didn’t know how to sit still without my past pulling up a chair next to me.

But over time, something shifted.

At first, the quiet just stopped feeling dangerous. Then, slowly, it started to feel… sacred.

It happened one morning. I was drinking coffee — just coffee — and the sun was doing that thing where it spills across the floor like it’s trying to bless the room. No TV. No music. No anxious scrolling. Just breath. Just stillness. Just me, not needing to escape myself.

And for the first time, I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t feel behind. I didn’t feel broken. I didn’t feel like I had to explain or achieve anything.

I just… existed. 
And it felt like enough.

That moment didn’t come with a choir or a Bible verse flashing in my mind. It wasn’t even dramatic. 
It was quiet. 
And it was holy.

Because I believe God shows up in the cracks. 
In the pauses. 
In the parts of the day we used to rush through when we were afraid to feel.

The world still screams. 
But sometimes grace whispers.

If you’re in a season where everything feels slow, don’t rush it. 
There’s something sacred in the stillness.

Don’t miss the miracle just because it doesn’t make noise.