Silence Isn’t Stuck–It’s Sacred
For most of my life, I’ve lived in noise.
Busy schedules. Loud rooms. Nonstop movement.
People everywhere. Distractions everywhere.
But I realized, that noise was never peace—it was camouflage.
It kept me from hearing what my soul had been whispering all along. My dreams. My fears. My future.
Silence Isn’t Stuck—It’s Sacred
In a therapy session, I was asked a question that hit me harder than I expected:
"What are you afraid of?"
Without even thinking, I said, “Sometimes... I’m afraid of being alone.”
That silence? It can feel loud.
So loud that I can’t hear myself think.
So loud that I confuse it with being stuck.
But my therapist looked at me and gently said:
"Being alone—and the silence it creates—is an opportunity."
And just like that, everything shifted.
For most of my life, I’ve lived in noise.
Busy schedules. Loud rooms. Nonstop movement.
People everywhere. Distractions everywhere.
But I realized, that noise was never peace—it was camouflage.
It kept me from hearing what my soul had been whispering all along.
My dreams. My fears. My future.
When I had ACDF surgery, most people thought it was just a routine procedure. But it wasn’t small for me—it was everything.
Because I was forced to stop. To be still.
To sit face to face with the truth:
If I didn’t make a change, I was going to live with chronic pain, maybe even disability, for the rest of my life.
It wasn’t just physical.
It was emotional. Spiritual. Transformational.
I had to ask myself:
“What tools am I still using that once protected me—but now prevent me from healing?”
And the biggest one?
Being overly independent.
That armor I wore for years?
It didn’t serve me anymore.
I couldn’t do everything alone—not this time.
And that meant facing the question:
Who can I depend on?
The recovery revealed what I needed to know.
Some people disappeared—and that’s okay.
Some people showed up—fully, boldly, quietly—and that’s sacred.
The real ones didn’t ask for credit.
They just ran toward me when I couldn’t walk alone.
That kind of presence can’t be faked.
In March, I was invited by my young friend, David, to see Kylie Minogue perform in Montreal.
But it was her opener, Romy, who cracked my heart wide open.
She sang a song called “Strong” that I didn’t know I needed to hear.
Tears fell before I even realized they were coming.
"You've been strong for so long...
You've learned to carry this on your own.
Let me be someone
You can lean on...
I'm right here…You don’t have to be so strong"
That moment—just like this season—isn’t about being stuck.
It’s about finally hearing what the whispers have been saying.
💭 Journal Prompt:
Where in your life are you still carrying it all alone?
What whispers have you ignored because life got too loud?
And how can you start listening again?
This post pairs with the Healing Through Reinvention journal prompt:
"Learning to Let Go of Old Tools"—available now in the
👉🏾 Watch Me Rise Journal
Sometimes I Have to Water Myself
I spent years hoping someone would see I was parched. I whispered my needs, softened my voice, and made myself small—hoping someone would notice I was running on empty. That love would show up and pour into me.
There’s a quiet truth I’ve learned during recovery: sometimes, I am both the garden and the gardener.
I spent years hoping someone would see I was parched. I whispered my needs, softened my voice, and made myself small—hoping someone would notice I was running on empty. That love would show up and pour into me.
But healing doesn’t always arrive through someone else’s hands.
There are days I walk outside, neck brace on, heart heavy, body aching… and I water my plants. Slowly. Silently. Tenderly. And in that moment, I realize—I’m really watering myself.
I’m showing up for myself.
I’m choosing softness.
I’m making space for peace.
This is what rising looks like when no one is clapping.
It’s what healing sounds like when the world is loud, but you choose quiet anyway.
If you’re in a season of becoming, I hope you remember: the most beautiful things grow in silence.
Even you.
💭 Journal Prompt:
Where in your life have you been waiting for someone else to pour into you? How can you begin to water yourself today?
👉🏾 This reflection pairs with the Healing Through Reinvention journal prompt “Pouring from a Full Cup”—available now inside the Watch Me Rise Journal.
Take your time.
Breathe through it.
And if you’re ready, write your way through it.
When Friendship Fails the Test
Some friendships aren’t meant to last forever. Here’s what I learned when silence spoke louder than words. #WatchMeRise
By Deryl Richardson
There’s something I’ve learned during recovery that hits harder than the pain itself: what people say when you’re in crisis—and what they actually do—are rarely the same.
So many people say, “You’re in my thoughts and prayers,” and honestly, that’s good enough. It’s kind. It’s real. It’s human.
But what’s not okay is when people say more than they mean.
“Let me know what you need.”
“I got you.”
“You know I’m here.”
But when I did let them know… nothing. No follow-through. No check-ins. No help. Just excuses or worse–silence.That’s not kindness. That’s character exposure.
Distance should never be an excuse for absence.
If you claim someone as a friend, and they tell you they need support—even if they’re in a different city—you show up in whatever way you can. That’s what friendship is. You don’t add disclaimers like, “If you were in my city, I’d help.” No, you wouldn’t. If convenience is your condition, that’s not friendship. That’s performance.
The truth is, some people were never really friends to begin with. They were just familiar faces in familiar places. But healing exposes that. Silence exposes that. Recovery makes it impossible to pretend.
This season has revealed something powerful:
I used to think friendship was about proximity. But now I know—it’s about presence. And presence isn’t about being in the room. It’s about being in someone’s life when it matters most.
I’m not bitter. I’m better.
Better because I see clearly now.
Better because I finally stopped excusing people who didn’t show up.
Better because I know what real support feels like—and what it doesn’t.
This is part of the rise.
This is how I reclaim my peace.
Not with anger, but with clarity.
So to those who disappeared: I release you.
And to those who stayed: thank you.
This story is mine now.
And I’m telling it—out loud.
#WatchMeRise