( ), our friend

(

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(

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Now, you’re a few pages into this. How do you feel?

Are you feeling awkward, now that you’re here? Are you relieved that there’s something to read? Or are you thinking maybe you should’ve picked something else to read?

Maybe you’re thinking that what I’m saying right now should’ve been said earlier. Maybe you’re a bit freaked out; a bit scared, afraid of all that empty space above.

All that verbal ( ).

You might’ve felt this way as a young child. The creeping feeling of dread when your parents kissed you goodnight and you were sent up to your room. You knew what was waiting for you there, but there was nothing you could do. It wouldn’t leave when you turned off the lights, and not even when you buried yourself under the covers, willing it to go away. Like a looming rain cloud, it would cast itself into every corner of the room; suffocating all sound.

It is the uncomfortable and unnerving sound of ( ).

It follows you in many different places. When the teacher asks a question on a Monday morning and no one answers, and an awkward ( ) quilts the room. Or those scenes in a horror film that make your body instinctively tense up in dread because there is no sound or warning of what’s to come. It might embody the opposite of life, because after death, there is only ( ). And it can catch you in a car, when the conversation is knocked off track with a slippery comment and suddenly the conversation has ended and you wish you could melt into your seat. Or whip open the car door and run away from the discomfort. But you can’t.

Now, there might be a simple solution to avoid these situations. A solution that can be boiled down to two simple words:

just talk.

After all, the only way to make ( ) disappear is to make sound. You could answer the question on that Monday morning, crack a stupid joke at the height of tension in the horror movie, and quickly change the topic of conversation in the car. Just by speaking, you could dispel that uncomfortable cloud that constantly looms over you. With your voice, all that fear and discomfort is gone. It’s that simple.

It was that simple, until 6 years ago.

6 years ago, I walked into a classroom as the chatty girl, the bright girl, the girl who always answered the questions. The girl who didn’t wait for the awkwardness or for others to speak first. She made the stupid jokes to lighten the mood in the car, and screamed over the scary parts in the movie to make them less frightening. That was who she was. Not polite like her brother, or smart like her friends. She had the gift of words and a voice, and that was all the girl needed. And she would never be alone.

Or so she thought.

6 years ago, I walked into a classroom in Korea, and for the first time in my life, I lost my voice. I walked in, and realized in a new horror that I was the foreign girl.

I was the girl who couldn’t speak.

And what entered at the door with me was my unwanted visitor, ( ).

( ) replaced my voice. It stripped my clothes of speech and left me naked, exposed, and squirming like a little child. ( ) tossed me into a foreign forest to be eaten alive by the wolves of conversation. When classmates and family friends I didn’t recognize asked me questions, I heard menacing growls and snarls. I let ( ) reply, in fear of making a mistake. When the teacher called my name, ( ) wrenched at my stomach, strangling the words in my throat. I wanted to reply, to talk like I always had, explain to them that I couldn’t understand. But I couldn’t do that, because ( ) was always there, and I couldn’t run away.

And at some point, as often happens in life, fear gave way to resentment. I resented

( ) for suffocating my voice and taking over all conversation. I resented the people around me who couldn’t understand, who believed ( ) was a choice. I hated that, in reality, it had always been my choice, but I had blamed my sloppy accent and limited vocabulary instead. For the first time in my life, I resented the sound of my voice; but what I resented most of all was what talking had let me do all my life.

It had let me run away.

I thought I had walked into a classroom as the chatty girl, but in reality, I had run away from believing otherwise. By talking, I had run away from being polite and responsible, or smart and creative. I had run away from growing into who I could be, and told myself that a gift of words and my voice was all I’d ever have. And that if I didn’t talk, I would be all alone.

But I had it all wrong.

When I walked out of that classroom after 6 months, I realized I was never truly alone. During all those nights in Korea, when I laid awake in bed, sitting in a puddle of tears and frustration, ( ) didn't suffocate my speech; it made me listen. ( ) came and sat beside me in all my feelings of brooding frustration and bitter resentfulness.

And with ( ) by my side, I was able to take them all in.

In the blanket of ( ), I gathered all the times I’d been misunderstood, scared, or hurt. I examined them and reflected on them, and ever so slowly –like a sliver of light shining through the looming clouds– I was able to let them go.

In the newfound warmth of ( ), that I had once avoided and resented, I found a safe space; a place of comfort.

In ( ), I could breathe.

Not only had I found a safe space in a foreign place, but I learned the most precious gift in life.

The gift of listening.

To truly listen, not just to others, but to myself and to my needs. And over time, the uncomfortable ( ) in the car and in conversations became less daunting, less dreadful, and became more comfortable.

Instead of an unwanted visitor, (silence) became a friend.

We’ve all been a bit freaked out by (silence); afraid of all the empty spaces. (Silence) reminds us that we’re alone, scared, or faced with situations we’ve run away from all our lives.

Or so we might’ve thought.

But the reality is that silence doesn’t help avoid; it helps confront. Silence brings out the worst of us, but also brings the light to talents and gifts we may have never realized. We learn the invaluable gifts of listening, thinking, processing, and reflecting.

So maybe, when you go up to your room in the middle of night and bury yourself under the covers, you’ll recall what you’ve read today. You might confront these words, maybe even reflect on them.

(Listening

in silence…

And maybe,

just maybe,

you might make a new friend.)

By: Hannah Kim-Cragg