On the Courage to Be Still
There is a kind of nobility—quiet, unassuming—in the soul that chooses stillness amidst the ceaseless clatter of the age. We live, it seems, in an era drunk on motion: the constant flicker of screens, the tyranny of schedules, the gospel of productivity. We measure our days not by depth but by velocity, as if speed alone could grant us meaning. And yet, tucked beneath the din, there lies a quieter wisdom—a brave and gentle defiance: the courage to be still.
To be still in such a world is no retreat. It is, rather, a clear-eyed refusal to be swept along by its more destructive illusions. Stillness is not passivity. It is a resistance movement of the soul—a silent rebellion against the notion that our worth is tethered to our output, our dignity to our digital reach. In choosing quiet, we are not withdrawing. We are reclaiming. We are saying, in essence, “I will not be ruled by the machine.”
There is, of course, a cost to this stillness. The moment we cease our frantic motion, we find ourselves in the presence of uninvited guests—the old fears, the unmet griefs, the half-forgotten dreams. It requires no small strength to sit, undistracted, in the company of one’s own soul. But this is where the true work begins. Silence, when entered with grace, does not hollow us out—it reveals us. And in that revelation lies the first glimmer of healing.
Healing, yes—but not only of self. For in stillness, many have discerned the presence of something beyond themselves, something holy and quiet and infinitely near. The mystics have long whispered what we too often forget: that the divine does not shout, but waits patiently in the hush. The psalmist’s words still echo across time: “Be still and know…” Not learn, not do, but be still. Knowledge of the sacred, it seems, comes not with striving, but with surrender.
Stillness, then, is not simply contemplative. It is moral. It gives us back the power to see clearly, to respond rather than react. It anchors our activism not in noise, but in love. When we learn to pause—to discern, to breathe—we are less likely to be driven by ego or fear, and more likely to act from the groundedness of compassion.
For those whose voices have been drowned in the roar of dominant culture, chosen silence becomes an act of reclamation. It says: “I will not perform for your comfort. I will listen instead to the long-buried wisdom within me.” In such silence, there is both sanctuary and strength—a returning to the self, the body, the truth.
And let us be clear: not all silence is sacred. There is a silence that betrays justice, that turns away from suffering. But that is not the stillness of which we speak. The stillness I commend is not apathy, but attention. It is the art of becoming exquisitely present. It is the belief, increasingly radical in our age, that true change begins not in clamour, but in quiet observation.
To be still, now, is to swim against the tide. But those who have cultivated this practice speak of its fullness—its capacity to hold wisdom, presence, and possibility. And perhaps, in choosing stillness ourselves, we extend an unspoken invitation to others. A permission to pause. And in that pause, to begin again—whole, human, and wholly awake.
Your words resonate deeply in a world that often feels too loud, too fast, too distracted. The idea of stillness as rebellion is both beautiful and radical—it’s a quiet revolution against the chaos we’ve accepted as normal. I wonder, though, how do we truly practice this kind of stillness when the world demands so much of us? Where do we even begin? Your mention of the “uninvited guests”—fear, grief, forgotten dreams—strikes a chord. Isn’t it ironic that turning inward feels scarier than the chaos outside? Yet, there’s something hopeful in the idea that stillness reveals us, that it’s the first step toward healing. And to think that stillness connects us to something divine—something that doesn’t shout but waits in the silence—it’s almost hauntingly beautiful. But here’s my question: in a world that equates worth with productivity, how do we silence the guilt that comes with stillness? How do we convince ourselves that just *being* is enough? What would you say to someone who feels they’re too busy to even try?
Thank you for your deeply thoughtful reflection. Your words echo the very tension that inspired the idea of stillness as rebellion: we are surrounded by speed, pressure, noise—and invited to believe that this is life at its fullest. But what if the truest parts of us can only emerge in silence?
And again, I offer this not as a saint standing above the fray, I too am a fully paid up member of the club of busy productivity. I’m a recovering busybody, if you will! But I have found that the endless pursuit of more, bigger, better is a race we will not win. And in the end lose that best part of ourselves.
And so I experience stillness as a radical act. It interrupts the endless doing and asks us simply to be. That’s frightening, yes—because in the stillness, we meet the parts of ourselves we’ve managed to avoid: the uninvited guests. But paradoxically, it’s there—in the quiet—that healing begins. Not by fixing ourselves, but by befriending ourselves, even the parts we would rather not acknowledge. As Rumi said, this life is a House, we open the front door and a different emotion shows up, invite them in -all of them – befriend then for each has a story to tell.
As for guilt, I don’t think we silence it by force. We simply let it come, acknowledge its voice, and keep sitting in stillness anyway. Every moment we choose presence over performance, we whisper back: “I am enough as I am.”
And to the one who feels too busy to try? Start small. Stillness isn’t a retreat from life—it’s a return to it. One deep breath. One minute. One pause in the middle of a chaotic day. That’s the rebellion. And over time, those little moments grow roots.
Again I really appreciate your engagement with my writings and I will post a few, more practical steps we can take to initiate the quiet rebellion! Thanks and blessings on your day.
1. How do we practice stillness when the world demands so much of us?
• Begin by reframing stillness not as withdrawal but as sustenance. Think of it as a spiritual inhale.
• Practice micro-pauses: one breath before opening your email, a moment of silence while waiting in line, five minutes in the car before going inside.
• Stillness isn’t always meditation—it can be walking slowly, journaling, or simply noticing the light on the wall.
2. Where do we even begin?
• Begin where you are. Choose one daily ritual—morning coffee, brushing your teeth, walking the dog—and infuse it with awareness.
• Use a question as your anchor: “What is here, now?” or “What is asking to be noticed in me today?”
3. Why does turning inward feel scarier than the chaos outside?
• Because chaos distracts us. It numbs us from the grief, fears, and longings we haven’t made peace with.
• Stillness strips away the noise and brings us face to face with truth—beautiful, painful, and healing all at once.
4. How do we silence the guilt that comes with stillness?
• Guilt is often the echo of a culture that equates worth with output.
• Instead of silencing guilt, try listening to it gently. Ask: “Whose voice is this?” Then let a deeper truth speak back.
• Affirm this simple truth often: I am not a machine. I do not need to earn my right to rest.
5. How do we convince ourselves that just being is enough?
• Practice being with yourself without judgment, even for a minute a day. Let presence itself teach you your worth.
• Surround yourself with reminders—quotes, music, poetry—that affirm your value beyond productivity.
6. What would you say to someone who feels too busy to even try?
• You’re not failing—you’re surviving. Stillness doesn’t demand more of your time; it invites you into your own life.
• Begin with what you have. A minute of deep breathing. One sacred pause.
• Even in your busyness, stillness can find you. Let it.