What I Noticed in the Quiet

First of all, I missed my family. That part never shifted. At first it was the space they left behind. No shoes by the door, no footsteps in the kitchen, the house holding still. Later it became a physical ache that showed up in the evenings and passed when it was ready. Sometimes I spoke aloud just to put a sound in the air, not to fill the silence, but because I had grown used to my voice being one among others.

I spent five weeks at our family beach house in Ocean City, MD with just about three of those weeks completely alone. The first week was mine, the second was filled with a dozen eighteen-year-olds extending their “Senior Week” trip, the next two returned to quiet, and the last was with the family. For most of it I kept my work rhythm: coffee and laptop at the same table each morning, answering emails, writing scripts, joining meetings. The final week I let it all go. No work, no car, no plans. I stayed in or walked. If I needed something, I walked to get it. Groceries arrived by Instacart and waited on the porch.

Without a car, the days drew closer. Not smaller, but more deliberate. I left only when I had to, and that was rare. I walked at least once a day, often twice. Mornings to the ocean, evenings along the bay, watching the sun drop behind the houses.

I changed how I ate. Clean, unprocessed food. Water with lemon. No snacks. No late meals. I ate early and logged everything in an app, less as a discipline than as a way to see clearly.

Most nights I read. Books I had put down months ago came back into my hands. I moved through them chapter by chapter on my Kindle, highlighting as I went. Later those notes would surface in Readwise, but for now they stayed in the page. Sometimes I sat for hours without moving.

Surprisingly, I did not sleep well. I thought the quiet would help, but I woke most nights around two or three and stayed there longer than I wanted. I would lie in the dark listening to the fan, aware of my back and the way it pressed into the mattress, unable to drift away from it. I wasn’t worried about anything. I just couldn’t sleep.

The days repeated themselves. I kept the house clean. I kept myself clean. I walked, ate, read. I sat on the back patio or rocked on the front porch. Nothing much changed, and that was part of the point.

Certain patterns stood out. I reached for my phone more often than I thought. I refreshed the same sites. I circled the same loops. I also noticed how still it felt to eat without a screen or a voice in the room — just the plate, the food, and the space around me. Not every meal was like that, but enough were.

Now that I’m home again, back in the pull of a full house, I’m not trying to hold onto those three weeks. They’ve passed. But something in me settled there. I walk more now. I wait a moment before turning something on. I think more about time and what it’s for.

It wasn’t a transformation. It was a stretch of days when I could hear more clearly. Mostly myself.