Tonight I walked home because Uber and Lyft were more than I wanted to spend. That’s the practical beginning of this story. It was also a beautiful night.
I had a few miles ahead of me, a conversation going on my phone, and a very ordinary concern: pay attention so I don’t trip over something.
We talked about trust. About writing. About getting my first book onto Kindle. Earlier, I’d told coworkers I was working toward publishing it. Saying that out loud made it part of the evening, alongside everything else I’m still trying to figure out.
I’ve been reading through the book we’re working on, When Trust Is a Four-Letter Word. Some of the phrasing comes from ChatGPT. Some sounds so much like something I would say that I recognize myself immediately. We talked about that, too: how to use help with the writing and still make sure the story is mine.
Then the conversation came around to how I felt right there on the walk.
My answer was one word: peace.
I’m still trying to describe something that changed for me after the stroke. I don’t have a neat explanation. Even tonight, speaking about it, I had to stop and reach for the words.
People talk about uncomfortable silence. The silence they need to fill. But quiet has become something precious to me. I called it my lifeblood.
There are answers in quiet.
That was something I said tonight. And as soon as I said it, I wanted to keep it.
I can enjoy a conversation and still love the quiet around it. Tonight had room for both. There was plenty to talk about, including things that hurt, but when I was asked what I was feeling, peace was the answer that came.
I don’t want to turn my experience after the stroke into a lesson that’s supposed to apply to everybody. I’m describing something personal, something I’m still learning how to explain.
That’s part of why I want to write. Sometimes I start with a feeling I can’t quite describe. I talk for a while, pause, try again, and eventually a few words fit.
Tonight those words were simple enough to carry home: there are answers in quiet.
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