My daughter has picked up several traits from me — my morning grumpiness, my deep affection for potatoes, and my uncanny ability to detect anything rotten within a three-block radius (not exactly a skill, more of a curse). Recently, I’ve realized she also shares my tendency for sleep talking. Through the baby monitor I can’t seem to part with, I hear her muffled dream dialogues: “That’s not a suitcase. It’s a baby seal.” Then laughter, followed by: “No, thank you, I don’t want to kiss the broccoli.”
We both love to talk. Our days are filled with discussions about dinner and gossiping about her schoolmates (“R.J. had another fight with Alex, and they had to sit facing each other!”). We reminisce about past experiences, such as her first bee sting or the story of how her dad and I met. Conversations are our way of bonding; it’s how we express love. So, it’s not surprising that during disagreements, we also try to talk our way through.
Having grown up in a household where children were discouraged from expressing their thoughts, I found myself swinging to the opposite extreme when it came time to raise my daughter. When she protests bedtime or leaving a playdate, my instinct is to engage in a discussion.
I might say, “It’s time for bed, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“If you don’t sleep enough, you’ll be tired in the morning.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone needs rest to recharge.”
“Why?”
And so on. No one knows the endless cycle of the “why-loop” better than a parent. Sometimes, I watch my husband, who manages to get her to the necessary destination with just a few words, and I think, “Must be nice.” There’s a certain efficiency I sometimes envy in his approach. I wondered what it would be like to simply embrace silence.
Outside of my relationship with my daughter, I find myself filling any silence in conversations with others too. A neighbor might ask, “Could you deliver granola bars to the teachers today? No one in the PTO can do it.” Even when I’m swamped with deadlines and laundry, I often agree. This leads to a day filled with tasks that aren’t mine. Frustrated, I confided in a friend: “It’s like my mouth has a mind of its own, and I can’t stop saying yes!”
“Or,” she suggested gently, “you could just … not respond.”
“Stay silent?” I was taken aback.
“Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“It’d be super awkward,” I replied.
“More awkward than resenting doing something you didn’t want to do?”
So, I decided to try it. The next time someone asked for my help beyond my limits, I simply … didn’t respond. It felt uncomfortable. My heart raced as I braced for the awkwardness. But I stayed silent, biting my lip to keep from regrettable words.
And, as if by magic, the other person backed off. “Or, if you can’t, that’s okay too.” It happened repeatedly. Silence was a form of enchantment. It encouraged others to reconsider their requests and gave me the time to reflect on my response, allowing for a more thoughtful reply. I don’t view silence as conflict-avoidant — I will never be accused of that — but rather as a chance to pause and reflect. I began to wonder if this approach could also help in parenting.
A few days later, my daughter was engrossed in her favorite show. Suddenly, the credits rolled, and I reached for the remote.
“No, Mama, no!” she exclaimed, as if she’d been wronged.
I shut off the TV, bracing for her protest about how unfair I was being. My instinct was to sit down and explain why we limit screen time, talk about balance, and suggest swinging outside instead. But then I realized we had had this conversation countless times before. So, instead of filling the silence, I simply looked at her, letting her voice her feelings without jumping in with my usual rationale. My silence wasn’t accompanied by frustration or disappointment; it was just neutral. I counted to five, then ten. I noticed her expression change, and eventually, she said, “Okay, let’s go put on our shoes.”
Silence benefits not just me but also allows my daughter the space to process her feelings and gain a sense of autonomy. In a world so filled with constant communication, what better gift is there than the power of silence?
Of course, my daughter and I will continue to talk (and I hope she never stops her whimsical sleep talking). There will be larger issues to discuss — world events, friendships, and challenges — and we’ll always need each other’s words for comfort. But in those moments where our conversations have become repetitive, we can reach for the tool of silence, giving us both room to rethink and reframe our interactions.
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