Without Realizing It

This happened many years ago. My elder one was around two at the time.

One day, I noticed the silence surrounding me. Silence was always welcome—it had become a rare commodity since the birth of my son.

But this silence… felt different. Unfamiliar and heavy.

It was depressing and frustrating at the same time when I noticed, for the first time in a while, that I wasn’t singing—not even a stray tune slipping out absentmindedly.

That was new.

Because that was who I was—the one who filled spaces without meaning to, with tunes, with half-remembered songs, with a voice that never really cared if it should.

It was second nature to me—I never really knew how to stay quiet. I was constantly humming tunes or singing to my mind’s delight.

Not that my singing was pleasing to others’ ears, mind you. I grew up listening to my mother complain about how my singing only seemed to worsen her headaches.

Still, it had always been mine. It was who I was.

So it surprised me when I noticed how quiet I had become.

Of course, it made sense. A sleeping child teaches you to soften your presence, to hold back even your breath.

But this felt like more than that. It felt like something had slipped away without asking me.

And I remember that small, unsettling question—what else have I been letting go of, without even noticing?

That thought lingered.

And slowly, hesitantly, I began to sing again. Not to please others, but to entertain myself. Not to fill the silence, but to find myself within it.

Since then, I’ve been paying attention in quieter ways—to the choices I make, to the ones I don’t question. And sometimes, when I catch myself drifting into something that doesn’t feel mine entirely, I pause.

And when I can, when I remember, when it matters—I choose me.

Not always easy. Not always whole. But enough.

Enough to not lose myself again without knowing.

This piece is written in response to Write Bravely – April prompt.