“Healing in the Quiet Moments”

Healing in the Quiet Moments

By [Ali Rehman]

Finding strength in stillness and the journey within.

Mira had always been a person who lived loudly—not with her voice, but with her pace. She filled every hour with something: tasks, conversations, work, noise. Silence was a place she avoided, a room she never entered. She feared that if she stopped moving, the world would catch up to her. Or worse—her thoughts would.

But stillness has a way of finding those who hide from it.

It happened on a rainy Tuesday morning. Her alarm didn’t ring. Her phone died overnight. Her bus left without her. Her boss sent a message saying the office was closed due to a power failure. The universe, it seemed, had coordinated a full stop.

Mira stood in her apartment, holding a mug of tea that was too hot to drink, feeling strangely suspended—like the world had taken a breath and she was standing inside it.

The silence was uncomfortable at first. It pressed against her chest, nudging old thoughts awake: the ones she had drowned under meetings, errands, and constant motion. Thoughts about her mother’s fading voice. About the friendships she’d let wilt. About the dreams she once tended with care and then abandoned like unread letters.

She placed the tea on the windowsill and inhaled deeply. The rain outside fell softly, almost politely, like it didn’t want to disturb her. And for the first time in months, Mira sat down without a purpose—no task, no deadline, no noise.

It felt like falling and landing at the same time.

The First Quiet Moment

She stared out at the rain and felt something shift inside her. The world was still, but not empty. The droplets tapped against the glass in a rhythm the universe seemed to hum only for her.

When she finally exhaled, she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath for years.

Memories played softly, like scenes from a film she had forgotten she starred in—her mother brushing her hair, her childhood garden, the sound of laughter in a house where laughter was rare. She realized she had spent so much time running from her past that she hadn’t allowed herself to remember its beauty.

She whispered into the quiet, “Maybe stillness isn’t dangerous.”

The rain answered by falling a little harder, as if agreeing.

The Second Quiet Moment

Around noon, she lit a candle. She didn’t know why—maybe the room felt too dark, or maybe light felt symbolic. The flame swayed gently, not pushing, not pulling, simply being.

Mira touched a hand to her chest and felt her heartbeat—steady, patient, loyal. She hadn’t listened to it in a long time.

She picked up a notebook from her shelf. The pages were blank. For years she had told herself she would start journaling “when things got calmer,” never realizing calm wasn’t something she found—it was something she created.

The first word she wrote was small:

“Here.”

Then came another:

“I am here.”

Her handwriting trembled as she filled the page with thoughts she’d been afraid to confront—loss, guilt, exhaustion, fear. But she also wrote gratitude, hope, and small joys she had forgotten to count.

Every sentence felt like a knot loosening.

The Third Quiet Moment

By evening, the rain had stopped. The world smelled new. Mira stepped outside for the first time that day. The street was washed clean, glistening with the last memories of the storm.

She walked without headphones, without a destination. She heard everything—the rustle of trees, the dripping roofs, distant laughter, her own footsteps. She hadn’t realized how much she missed listening.

At a small park nearby, she sat on a bench and watched the sky turn from grey to lavender. A child chased a puddle’s reflection. An old man fed crumbs to pigeons. Life moved, but gently.

Mira felt a quiet blooming inside her—something fragile yet strong. Maybe healing wasn’t a dramatic event. Maybe it didn’t require grand gestures or perfect moments.

Maybe healing was simply paying attention.

Returning Home

That night, she cleaned her room slowly, intentionally. Not because it was messy, but because she wanted to feel present in her own space. She placed the candle by her bedside and opened the window to let the cool air in.

As she lay down, she realized she hadn’t felt this peaceful in a long, long time.

Not because the world had changed.

But because, in the quiet moments, she had.

The stillness she once feared had become a soft place to land—

a place where her heart could stretch, breathe, and remember itself.

And for the first time, Mira understood:

She didn’t need to run from silence.

Silence was where she found herself again.

Moral:

True healing doesn’t shout or demand attention—it grows in stillness, in breath, in the quiet moments where we dare to feel, listen, and simply be.