When Silence Hurts Louder than Words

There’s a particular kind of ache that comes when someone you’ve been building something with just… disappears.

No explanation. No closure. Just silence.

It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel calm — it feels like confusion, rejection, and heartbreak all tangled up. One minute, you’re texting, laughing, feeling a rhythm growing between you. The next, you’re staring at your phone wondering what just happened. It’s like someone left a conversation halfway through, took all their words with them, and expected you not to notice.

And even though people say not to overthink it — that “if someone wanted to, they would” — it still hurts. Because they did for a while. And then they didn’t.

I’ve been trying to stay busy. Filling my days with people and plans, work, walks and errands, laughter and noise. And still… the thoughts sneak in. The what-ifs. The maybes. The rewinding and reanalyzing of every last text. Did I miss a red flag? Was I too much? Not enough?

But I think what hurts most isn’t even the loss of the person — it’s the loss of the story I thought we were writing. The potential. The possibility. The feeling that something good might have been unfolding — and the way that, without warning, it unraveled without me getting a final page.

And yet, in this limbo, I’m trying to do something radical:

To stay soft.

To stay kind.

To myself, most of all.

Because silence from someone else does not mean I should go quiet on myself. It doesn’t mean I should stop hoping, or that I’m wrong for feeling deeply. It doesn’t mean I need to get bitter or build walls so high that nothing can reach me.

Maybe this is where God teaches me the difference between waiting on a person and waiting on Him. Maybe this is where I learn that patience doesn’t mean passivity — it means trusting that even in the quiet, something sacred is still happening. That even this ache can be used for something good.

Maybe this is how I learn to stop chasing clarity from others and start finding it in myself.

I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt. It does. I miss the way things were. I miss the hope I had. But I also know this: My worth doesn’t evaporate just because someone else walked away from it.

So today, I’m picking up the pieces. Not to fix what broke, but to build something better — within myself. I’m learning to treat my own heart with the care I was hoping to receive. To comfort myself in ways no one else seems able to right now.

To believe that healing is happening, even when it doesn’t feel like it yet.

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What I’m Learning in the Waiting

Waiting is hard.

Not just the waiting itself — but how we wait.

What we tell ourselves while we wait.

Who we become in the middle of all that unknown.

Lately, I’ve been sitting in this very space — the in-between. The “what happened?” The “why did he just disappear?” The questions I’ll probably never get answers to.

And if I’m honest, I don’t just miss him — I miss the version of myself that wasn’t overthinking. The version that was excited. Lighthearted. Unbothered. It’s strange how someone else’s silence can feel so loud in your own mind. But what I’m learning is this:

Silence can still be sacred.

This quiet space? It’s not empty — it’s full of lessons.

It’s showing me what I will and will not accept.

It’s teaching me that closure doesn’t always come with a conversation.

And most importantly, it’s reminding me that peace isn’t something another person brings to me — it’s something I build inside myself.

I’ve realized I don’t want love that disappears when it gets inconvenient.

I don’t want someone who needs reminders to value me.

I want consistency, clarity, care — and I’m allowed to want that without feeling needy or ashamed.

I don’t have to shrink to be chosen.

I don’t have to chase to feel worthy.

I don’t have to settle for a breadcrumb when I’m made for abundance.

So, here in this waiting season, I’ve decided not to wait for him.

I’m waiting on God.

On healing.

On the version of myself that’s becoming more whole with every hard lesson.

I’m waiting on the kind of love that doesn’t confuse me, exhaust me, or make me second-guess my value.

Because I believe that love — real love — won’t have me guessing.

And until then, I’m learning how to show up for myself.

To sit with my pain but not be defined by it.

To laugh again, hope again, dream again.

To stay open, even when it would be easier to shut down.

If you’re waiting too — for answers, for healing, for love that stays — you’re not behind.

You’re being refined.

There’s beauty being born in this waiting space.

It may not look like much right now.

But you’re not the same person who first walked into this heartache.

And when you finally walk out of it — you’ll be stronger, softer, and somehow even more you.

Keep going.

You’re not forgotten.

You’re being prepared.

Even here.

Even now.