About a year ago, she lost a part of her life. It was a loss that she had come to anticipate way before it happened, and she had thought it would be easy to accept. She thought her heart would not bear any pain. She thought she could move on, living life without this portion that has once been an integral part of it.
And so she tried. She went about playing her different roles — wife, mum, friend, educator. She kept busy, offering herself to various worthy causes of volunteerism. She filled her calendar. She laughed. She danced. She acted as she should.
Then slowly, quietly, she lost her voice. The voice that tells her her inner feelings, the voice that tells her everything is not ok, the voice that tells her that the loss is affecting her. She stopped writing. She couldn’t write. She didn’t know how to write anymore. She would lie down in bed and find words twirling wildly in her brain, but when she gets up to face the screen nothing come out. The words that have been excitedly jumping in her brain keeping her awake magically disappear. She wanted toagain. write about the loss, but she dared not for fear of tears rolling down her cheeks as she write. She wanted to shout, to scream the words out, but nothing would come out. Nothing.
For a long time, she drowned herself in this world of silence. She tried to escape, retreating to an artificial world of orchestrated stories and beauty on a brightly lit screen every night. Only to find herself running further and further away from those who love her and those whom she e loved. She knew. She struggled to regain her voice. But she didn’t know how. She tried again and again, only to retreat into the escapism mode again and again.
Then one day, it came back. She couldn’t say exactly how or why.
Maybe the voice got tired of being silent. Maybe the fierocity of her girl’s passion in writing fired her up.
Maybe her prayers were heard.
Maybe the season of being quiet is finally over.