When I Got Quiet Enough to Hear What I’d Been Ignoring
There was no thunder.
No breakdown.
No screaming sky or lightning-flash revelation...
Just quiet.
That kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful at first. It feels uncomfortable—like something’s missing. Like you forgot to turn the world back on.
I’d been moving fast for months. Staying productive. Being “inspired.” Keeping busy. But when I finally stopped—when the noise dropped—I didn’t hear clarity.
I heard everything I’d been trying not to.
The pressure.
The ache.
The questions I’d buried under momentum.
And one truth I’d been sidestepping for a while.
It didn’t yell at me.
It didn’t judge me.
It just... waited.
We like to say things like “I just need clarity,” or “I’m trying to find peace.”
But peace isn’t found in thinking harder.
And clarity doesn’t show up when you chase it.
They arrive when we finally stop running from what we already know.
And I say “we” because I’ve been there.
Even now, with all this work I do—writing, teaching, listening—I still have moments where I crowd my own space. I let the noise creep in. I make things louder than they need to be, because quiet is dangerous when you’re not ready to feel.
But the truth has a way of sitting just behind the silence, waiting for you to finally exhale.
That day, when I got still, I felt it again.
The thing I’d been ignoring.
It didn’t need an answer.
It just needed to be heard.
There’s a part of you that always knows.
Not the part that analyzes or debates.
Not the part that fears what it might mean.
But the part underneath all that—the one that never stopped paying attention.
That part isn’t loud.
It’s honest.
And most of us have spent years trying to out-shout it.
We fill our days. We scroll. We solve. We set goals. We make lists. We talk things out, again and again, as if the solution is somewhere outside us.
But sometimes the real shift doesn’t come from figuring it out.
It comes from getting quiet enough to feel what’s already there.
I’ve come to believe that ignoring your intuition isn’t always conscious.
Sometimes, it’s just a survival strategy.
We don’t want to hear what we’re not ready to act on.
We don’t want to know what might unravel something.
We don’t want to touch the thing that asks us to change.
So we keep things loud.
We keep moving.
We call it focus.
We call it discipline.
But deep down, we know it’s resistance.
And one day—maybe after everything else goes silent—we sit in the stillness and feel it...
That thing that never went away.
That nudge. That knowing.
That whisper we drowned out for the sake of “keeping it together.”
When I finally let myself listen—really listen—it wasn’t scary.
It was familiar.
Like something I’d forgotten how to hold.
It didn’t say, “You failed.”
It didn’t say, “It’s too late.”
It said, “There you are... I’ve been waiting.”
And I just sat there, not trying to solve it.
Not trying to map it out.
Just letting it echo.
That’s when I remembered: sometimes the answer isn’t clarity.
Sometimes it’s presence.
Sometimes you don’t need a plan.
You need to stop pretending you don’t already know.
I don’t think this is a one-time thing.
It’s a practice. A returning.
I still catch myself filling the quiet with thoughts instead of truth.
Still notice when I’m solving things that don’t need solving—just feeling.
Still see the moment when I choose distraction instead of depth.
But I get better at noticing.
And every time I do, I remember how much wisdom is waiting in the stillness I try to avoid.
Not because I’m broken.
Not because I’m lost.
But because I’m human.
And being human means forgetting, sometimes, how to listen.
So if things feel loud right now...
If you’re craving peace but can’t seem to find it...
If you’re circling a decision, waiting for the right sign...
Try this:
Get still.
No music. No input. No “next step.”
Just quiet.
And ask:
What have I been pretending not to know?
Don’t force the answer.
Don’t try to fix it.
Just listen.
And if you hear something stir—something simple, something soft...
Don’t dismiss it.
That’s where it starts.
That’s where it always starts.
Derek Wolf
If something in this spoke to you, there’s more waiting. I write, interact, and teach more deeply over at www.L2Bintuitive.com—where we explore how to actually live what you feel.
There was no thunder.
No breakdown.
No screaming sky or lightning-flash revelation...
Just quiet.
That kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful at first. It feels uncomfortable—like something’s missing. Like you forgot to turn the world back on.
I’d been moving fast for months. Staying productive. Being “inspired.” Keeping busy. But when I finally stopped—when the noise dropped—I didn’t hear clarity.
I heard everything I’d been trying not to.
The pressure.
The ache.
The questions I’d buried under momentum.
And one truth I’d been sidestepping for a while.
It didn’t yell at me.
It didn’t judge me.
It just... waited.
We like to say things like “I just need clarity,” or “I’m trying to find peace.”
But peace isn’t found in thinking harder.
And clarity doesn’t show up when you chase it.
They arrive when we finally stop running from what we already know.
And I say “we” because I’ve been there.
Even now, with all this work I do—writing, teaching, listening—I still have moments where I crowd my own space. I let the noise creep in. I make things louder than they need to be, because quiet is dangerous when you’re not ready to feel.
But the truth has a way of sitting just behind the silence, waiting for you to finally exhale.
That day, when I got still, I felt it again.
The thing I’d been ignoring.
It didn’t need an answer.
It just needed to be heard.
There’s a part of you that always knows.
Not the part that analyzes or debates.
Not the part that fears what it might mean.
But the part underneath all that—the one that never stopped paying attention.
That part isn’t loud.
It’s honest.
And most of us have spent years trying to out-shout it.
We fill our days. We scroll. We solve. We set goals. We make lists. We talk things out, again and again, as if the solution is somewhere outside us.
But sometimes the real shift doesn’t come from figuring it out.
It comes from getting quiet enough to feel what’s already there.
I’ve come to believe that ignoring your intuition isn’t always conscious.
Sometimes, it’s just a survival strategy.
We don’t want to hear what we’re not ready to act on.
We don’t want to know what might unravel something.
We don’t want to touch the thing that asks us to change.
So we keep things loud.
We keep moving.
We call it focus.
We call it discipline.
But deep down, we know it’s resistance.
And one day—maybe after everything else goes silent—we sit in the stillness and feel it...
That thing that never went away.
That nudge. That knowing.
That whisper we drowned out for the sake of “keeping it together.”
When I finally let myself listen—really listen—it wasn’t scary.
It was familiar.
Like something I’d forgotten how to hold.
It didn’t say, “You failed.”
It didn’t say, “It’s too late.”
It said, “There you are... I’ve been waiting.”
And I just sat there, not trying to solve it.
Not trying to map it out.
Just letting it echo.
That’s when I remembered: sometimes the answer isn’t clarity.
Sometimes it’s presence.
Sometimes you don’t need a plan.
You need to stop pretending you don’t already know.
I don’t think this is a one-time thing.
It’s a practice. A returning.
I still catch myself filling the quiet with thoughts instead of truth.
Still notice when I’m solving things that don’t need solving—just feeling.
Still see the moment when I choose distraction instead of depth.
But I get better at noticing.
And every time I do, I remember how much wisdom is waiting in the stillness I try to avoid.
Not because I’m broken.
Not because I’m lost.
But because I’m human.
And being human means forgetting, sometimes, how to listen.
So if things feel loud right now...
If you’re craving peace but can’t seem to find it...
If you’re circling a decision, waiting for the right sign...
Try this:
Get still.
No music. No input. No “next step.”
Just quiet.
And ask:
What have I been pretending not to know?
Don’t force the answer.
Don’t try to fix it.
Just listen.
And if you hear something stir—something simple, something soft...
Don’t dismiss it.
That’s where it starts.
That’s where it always starts.
Derek Wolf
If something in this spoke to you, there’s more waiting. I write, interact, and teach more deeply over at www.L2Bintuitive.com—where we explore how to actually live what you feel.