Night of Silence

A voice

A pause placed where momentum would otherwise carry us past something essential.

Following our first full-length concert, I lost my voice.
Unable to sing, I found myself worried as the next live performance draws near.

Sometimes the body speaks before the mind is willing to listen.

A voice gives out not as punishment, but as punctuation—a pause placed where momentum would otherwise carry us past something essential. What looks like loss is often an insistence: stay here.

There is a particular bravery in expression that looks loud from the outside but is quietly costly within. To be seen. To be heard. To step forward with one’s own sound. The nervous system knows this risk well, even when the heart is ready—especially when the heart is ready.

And so the body does what it knows how to do: it protects.
It freezes.
It silences.

It silences so the deep longing to be met while giving can be heard.
And a mother’s weariness, layered atop an artist’s vulnerability, is given space.

Songs do not ask to be learned; they ask to be lived.

Night of Silence becomes permission—for life to feel cold at times, for bodies to tremble, for souls—my soul—to feel desolate. And then, to receive light. To receive comfort, and rest in silence.

What shall come forth is a rose, tended.
A heart, warmed by a love that is real.
And a song that nestled in heavenly silence long enough to be truly lived.