It Got Too Quiet, and I Didn’t Know Who I Was Without the Noise

It Didn’t Happen All at Once

The quiet crept in slowly—first as a relief, then as a weight. No more pings. No more plans. No one asking where I was or what I was doing. Just… me. Sitting in a space that used to feel full. And when the noise stopped, I realized I didn’t quite recognize the woman left behind.

Friends mean well. “I’ll be there for you, don’t you worry!”

“You won’t go through this alone.”

And I’ve been that friend too—I thought I was supportive, present. And I was… when I had the time. Some days now, my phone doesn’t ring at all.

I love hikes in the woods—just not solo. I’m not trying to end up a Law & Order: SVU plotline. (I watch way too much true crime to be wandering around unaccompanied like I don’t value my organs.) But the truth is: people have their lives. You can’t always be part of their plans. And honestly, being the third wheel is only cute until it’s not.

So my weekends without the kids felt… empty.

They became deep-cleaning days.

I picked up overtime.

I escaped into sexy, toxic book boyfriends until even they lost their appeal.

Then came Netflix binges. Temporary fixes, all of it.

I’ve always been the life of the party, the jokester, the conversationalist. But lately? I’d go to get-togethers and sit quietly, taking it all in. Listening more than talking. My friends noticed.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I’d say.

But the truth? The solitude never left, even when I was surrounded by people I love.

And that’s when I started to wonder:

What in the actual hell is wrong with me?

Was this depression?

I started working out every morning, taking solo walks around the neighborhood. It felt good… for a while. Until the loudness of the silence caught up to me again.

When I got divorced, I didn’t realize I was taking the first step toward becoming.

Becoming who, exactly? I wasn’t sure. But I was moving—quietly, awkwardly—toward a version of myself I hadn’t met yet.

Every new experience forces us to face parts of ourselves we didn’t know we were still carrying—old habits, outdated beliefs, emotional reflexes that no longer serve the life we say we want. Some of those parts have to go if we ever hope to evolve.

Enter Piers—better known as “Tentacles”—and Santos ( see chapters 1 & 2).

These two lovely reminders from the universe helped me confront one hard truth:

I didn’t know how to set boundaries.

I was too accepting.

Too understanding.

Too willing to adjust.

Too desperate to avoid conflict.

All things I’d worn like virtues, but in reality? They were symptoms. Symptoms of the patterns that contributed to the collapse of my marriage—and followed me right into the dating world.

And the jokester?

That was a mask.

One I wore most of my life. It kept things light. Made people comfortable. Got me invited, included, even liked. But underneath the laughter was someone afraid that silence might reveal she wasn’t enough.

I still have a sharp sense of humor. That hasn’t changed. But here’s what has:

I don’t need to be the entertainment anymore to feel worthy of being seen.

I didn’t know who I was without the noise.

But for the first time, I was starting to hear her.