Tag: #selfreflection

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2022 Summary, 2023 Intentions

Last year feels impossible to summarise, perhaps because living it felt exhausting or all consuming. This was the first year out of lockdowns in a while, and I have also done some huge things, personally and professionally. 

Here’s a very brief summary of 2022, a few things I’m grateful for, and my intention setting for 2023.

Personally, in 2022, I:

  • had another baby (!!)
  • moved house, and set up a home in a new area
  • had overseas family visits
  • became an Australian citizen, then voted in a victorian election

Professionally, in 2022, I:

  • completed a full year of practicing as a Provisional Psychologist. 
  • completed the final project of the ABC top 5 Arts residency and released a radio package about disability representation in fiction through The Book Show. 
  • have produced, created and hosted the second season of the (Un)marginalised Podcast, which included a live, hybrid recording event with an audience, as a part of Melbourne Fringe Festival. What an honour to have a physical and online rooms filled with people who engaged in the conversation I had with Carly Findlay about disability, ableism, intersectionality, and more. 
  • officially became a published author when the book We’ve Got This came out with Black Inc. books (edited by Eliza Hull). I was also lucky enough to have a launch event at Readings, talk about my experience, and participate in a book panel about parenting with a disability as a part of a Mother’s Day event. 
  • spoke at a medical conference for the first time IRL: about disability, ableism inclusion and anti-ableism work 
  • was appointed editor of Writing Place 2022 by Arts Access Australia. What a privilege it was to read the works of disabled creators and curate a magazine filled with talent, wisdom and authenticity. 
  • had my first live radio interview with 3RC, talking about writing disabled parenting. Find it here.
  • was interviewed for 9 News about my experience of anticipating birth as a disabled person during the covid restrictions. Find the article here.
  • Was published in ABC Art. I wrote about disability representation in fiction. It was so great to speak with two disabled authors I respect and admire for the article and the radio package.  

A few things I am grateful for over the last year: 

  • Being supported by family, gifted family & chosen family in the transition to becoming a family of five (Chilli included) 
  • Asking for help when things got hard and prioritising just enough self-care to sustain my health 
  • Visits from overseas family and spending time together 
  • Moving house and starting to make it our home 
  • Having multiple opportunities to write, advocate, educate, train and speak with people and groups or organisations about disability, justice and intersectionality 
  • Getting to know new people, and connecting with people who engaged open heartedly with the content and with us 
  • Growing my Patreon community that supports my website, podcast and advocacy work
  • Becoming a published author

Intentions for 2023: 

  • Focus on completing as many requirements for my internship as possible 
  • Form a new writing group 
  • Create a writing routine that fits with my other commitments 
  • Prioritise self-care and form routines for exercise and sleep 
  • Spend my kids’ day doing enriching activities 
  • Rest 
  • Be present 

Thank you for all of your support over the last year! 

A special shout out to Sally Bridgford and Yaron Kenigsman for their Patreon support! Could not have done everything without you ❤️

If you want to get more behind the scenes content my Patreon account is on https://www.patreon.com/LielKBridgford

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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A letter to the over-achiever part of myself

CW: Internalised ableism.

Dear protective mechanism named achievement-focus,

For the purpose of this letter I will call you Little Creature – as you are like a separate being to myself who lives inside my mind influencing me to varying degrees, depending on my vulnerability at the time, and perhaps your mood. 

I am writing to you today because your presence in my life has become more prominent recently. You stick your head through a doggy-door and say hello by telling me the decision to study psychology instead of medicine was giving up. You wave by telling me staying in a job for over four years is stagnation.

I know you very well. Like a ghost you have a tendency to go undetected for a while, leading me on as if you’ve disappeared forever, in those breaks you take from sitting on my mind’s bank like a devil directing my interpretation of the world. Recently I have come to understand your origin, which is of course intertwined with my own.

Growing up I knew I was different from others – I had a ‘leg problem’ and that was a bad thing I had to live with. In order to make sense of life’s unfairness and my fate of pain, bullying, constant operations and traumas, I’ve come up with an equation that made life bearable. It was: pain + special powers = a sensible world. If special powers was removed from the equation, the world did not make sense anymore. I could also replace pain with trauma/disability/hospital visits/bullying etc. So then I’d get for instance bullying + special powers = a sensible world. This worked because bullying or trauma are painful parts of human life. Special powers however, are obviously a positive, uplifting part of life. This way the world could remain at lease a neutral place, somehow fair. I got a really bad luck item in my basket of life, but at least I had some undefined special powers – it meant not only the world was not so cruel but I was a worthy human after all. The simple conclusion I reached was I must hold some extraordinary qualities which compensated for my disability and associated pains – achievements resulting from these qualities were going to make it all worthwhile. This interpretation is not unique to myself. Other disabled people have described a similar experience. There is a social and historical context to this of course, as disability has previously been seen as a punishment or a gift depending on the time and culture one examines. Perhaps these reflect human’s natural tendency to attempt making sense of the world – to order its uncompromising chaos.

Anyway, this is how you came to be – Little Creature, you were born in that small room in our Tel-Aviv apartment on my single bed, above the blue checkered mattress. You were born in my mind and helped me feel as if the world was actually not a terrible place after all, I was worthy after all. You have helped making life bearable. You’ve helped me clean those Ilizarov pins and get through being teased. You have been effective all the while you’ve developed strong roots in my brain to help me survive.

But what about now? 

Now so much has changed – my life, the society I live in, my body and my roles. Everything has changed and so must we. I no longer think the world must be sensible. The equation does not make sense because the world is not neutral. It is much more complicated – even if I tried I could not assign a single value which will carry across genders, countries, cultures, days or even moments. Sometimes the world is fantastic and great things happen, nevertheless simultaneously terrible things happen. There is no simplifying this mess. I also don’t see my disability as a bad thing anymore. Regardless, you, Little Creature, keep telling me that if I do more, if I get ahead somehow, if I reach sufficient success, then the world will be ok. Then I will be ok – I will be worthy.

Today I want to tell you, Little Naïve Creature, that you have been exposed. You cannot hide as I won’t let you act in the background like a puppeteer telling me to be better all the time (i.e. that I’m not good enough) or accusing my past choices were wrong because I am still not there – in that elusive destination of success which will make my worth stable forever.

Right now I know my worth has nothing to do with my achievements. Knowing intellectually and experiencing in one’s body are two distinct things. I hope that this letter will help my body remember this, and internalise it so that you will become powerless, or at least weaker. You are no longer needed. My goals are to be happy and healthy, not to reach any particular milestone you think I should. As I am writing this, you are still whispering that’s not true and also giving me examples of goals I should have in order to be happy. But I am the most content right now – writing and reflecting in silence except for the dishwasher rain-like flow, paralleling the words I’m creating.

I know you are not leaving anytime soon, so this is not a goodbye. This is a hello, from now on I am perceptively watching you – I know what you are doing and I won’t let you spoil this for me. 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Intentionally Disabled and (Non) Belonging

Recently someone asked me to consider changing my language from ‘disabled’ to ‘people with disabilities’ – a term they thought more modern. I use the word disabled intentionally. This is why.

For the majority of my life, I haven’t identified as disabled. As a child I would mostly walk with crutches and have an apparent impairment. My leg treatments meant I wasn’t able to play in the sandpit, go to the beach or participate in sports class. The constant operations and hospital visits also separated me from everyone else. I didn’t feel I belonged with kids around me, nor with my family. A cold sense of being different has always simmered inside me. The only chance I had to belong was to have a ‘normal’ leg – an impossible achievement. My peers called me disabled, amongst other insults, and I took it to heart, feeling ashamed of my failure to fit in. I’d cringe at the word disabled when it was used by medical or social services. My family insisted I was ‘normal’. The words ‘disabled’ and ‘disability’ had negative connotations – in my mind, family, and society. It meant you were less than others. I constantly tried to fit in to the able-bodied group despite knowing I didn’t belong. Even at times my leg could be hidden, I didn’t feel like a real part of the group. It felt like wearing a mask and pretending it was my real skin – exhausting and saddening. 

I also didn’t belong to any disability community. I’ve never met anyone born with Fibular Hemimelia, or any other disability. I saw people with visible impairments in hospital waiting rooms or clinics, but we all kept to ourselves. Despite being told others like me existed, I could not conceptualise it. I used to imagine kids like me in other places – they were like ghosts I was desperate to touch but couldn’t even see. It was a lonely existence. 

I didn’t belong to any of these groups; the able-bodied group or the disabled – I belonged nowhere. In her book Hearing Maud, Jessica White describes her identity as being in between the hearing and the living worlds. I have often experienced a similar sense of (non) belonging. By (non) belonging I mean a feeling of being and living in between, belonging to none of the identification groups available to you.

At university I came across the social model of disability – a seed was planted. Several years later, when I became a mother, I faced further ableism and barriers I’ve managed quietly for some years – medical, social and internalised. It started at my first antenatal class where a midwife judged and shamed any parent who wasn’t ‘active’ enough and referred to them as a “sideline mum”, explaining how not participating in kids’ sport made one a second-rate parent. I walked away knowing I will forever be judged for being a disabled parent. Worries about being judged and mistreated, and concerns about the implications for my child fuelled my fear, resentment and shame.

Connecting with the disability community, reading, writing, reflecting and undertaking therapy – has eventually made me realise the ‘problem’ was never me or my leg. The problem has always been my disempowerment, marginalisation, silencing, lack of access, and societal expectations – all of which have led to my (non) belonging. Gradually I developed an understanding of how the social model of disability applies to me. I’ve always been disabled by the society I was operating in – by doctors who kept promising one day I’ll be ‘fixed’, by peers who bullied me, by a society that didn’t consider it worthwhile installing a lift at our school or home. I was disabled by people’s staring, by others attempts to hide my leg and by ‘professionals’ who judged me for not being able-bodied. Painful moments in my life were always born from society’s expectations and views of disability, others’ choices and behaviours. I have been disabled by disempowering and discriminatory practices and spaces. My body, different from others as it is, is not inferior in any way. 

Once I freed myself of these expectations and views, that is – the need to be an able-bodied person, I became free to advocate for myself and others and live a better life. I liberated myself through changing my perspective, taking pride in myself – disability included. I’ve learned from many advocates about the use of disability-centred language (i.e. the word disabled) and it powerfully resonated with me. Nowadays I refer to myself as disabled as a way to 1. Reclaim the word which belongs to our community – letting everyone know being disabled is not an insult, but an identity. Just like I identify as a Melbournian. 2. Express my identification with the disability community and my pride, and finally 3. To express my adherence to the social model of disability, rejecting the medical model. I am disabled not by my impairment, but by the society in which I live. 

I am still disabled by a society that doesn’t prioritise installing lifts or ramps in health, recreation, community and employment places. I would not be disabled by our society if it was accessible. I wouldn’t be disabled if my employment, entertainment and recreation opportunities weren’t restricted by spaces and practices made only for one type of people – able-bodied people. I would not have been disabled if my needs were considered just as important as an able-bodied person’s needs, if my way of living was just as valued.

This is why I identify with and deliberately choose to use the term disabled. It is not an insult anymore – we have reclaimed it. I am proud to be disabled because it made me who I am, and I have a community to belong to now. The deep permeating sense of (non) belonging is difficult to shake. I often feel like the different or inferior one in a group. Identifying as disabled gives me strength, hope and connection. Speaking with my support people builds my sense of belonging – it is still in the making. There are still days and moments I feel disconnected and alone. Connecting, reading or listening to others’ stories feels like holding the hand of a long-lost friend. I have found my people. 

Identity is an idiosyncratic and evolving process. Some people with disabilities don’t identify with the word disabled. I choose it – thoughtfully, and deliberately. Disabled is not an insult, it’s who I am.

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Disability Pride and Me

July is disability pride month, and I’ve been pondering the idea the entire month. This is the first time I’ve even heard of, and can identify with, disability pride month. The sad fact that it took me over thirty years to get here doesn’t stop me from being connected with the idea. 

Disability pride has changed my life so significantly it is actually hard to put into words. I’ve written about this before in different ways – my journey of accepting who I am, my disability and my life. But how has this pride improved my life? Here are just a few things that have come to mind as I’ve reflected over the last month.

As a teenager, my leg was always out of sight, especially in photos (I didn’t crop the leg out – it was never captured). Image description: a teenage girl sitting on a white plastic chair at the edge of a lake, looking at the camera, smiling. She is wearing read bikini top and white shorts.

My mental health has improved (well apart from COVID anxiety). I no longer feel worried, scared, ashamed or guilty about my disability or my needs. Instead of constantly worrying about someone seeing my leg or commenting about how I dress or my limp, I feel free to wear what I truly like, that works with the weather, my mood and who I am. 

My physical health has improved. Despite being an Australian resident since 2015 I have never thought about even inquiring about disability support. The Israeli system taught me that is a traumatic process that isn’t worth my effort and time. By accepting that I am disabled, I’ve applied for NDIS funding and received it, allowing me access to services I never thought were even an option for me. A few weeks ago I’ve had an assessment with an occupational therapist for the first time in my life. I nearly cried of joy when she recommended meaningful modifications that would make my life more pain free and manageable.

I found a community. Having a disability community I can be a part of means everything to me. It means that after so many years of feeling like the outsider, the one who doesn’t fit in or belong, the ‘damaged one’, I now feel a sense of belonging to a community which is resilient, powerful, unapologetic and beautiful. Feeling ‘normal’ and that others out there are like me discarded so much shame and hopelessness. 

I found hope. Growing up I’ve learnt to wait for a ‘fix’ of my leg, my body, of me. That was the main goal of all my treatments. Unfortunately, I was never going to be ‘normal’ and felt I would never truly fit it. Disability pride has made me hopeful because I’ve changed my focus. I no longer wait for a fix of myself, because I am not the one who needs fixing. It is our society that needs to do the work – to reflect, fund, support, accept, and change. There is hope in my heart that we can make that change happen – because there are such strong voices out there advocating for that, every day.

People around me understand more. Since accepting who I am, talking and writing about it, I’ve noticed people in my environment responding. I got asked if I need a hand with something previously people wouldn’t have mentioned. People have told me that my writing and advocacy about disability have changed their perspective and their behaviour. My toddler knows about my pain and accepts my body and it’s functions because I talk about them without apologies or shame.

I am more me. As a kid, I remember pondering what would happen to me once the leg thing was ‘finished’. Even as a child I felt sad about being ‘fixed’, despite simultaneously wanting that to happen so bad. Now I know the reason for this ambivalcnce is disbaility pride. Even as a child I knew that my leg, my disability or my journey, could never be sepeated from me. They are an integral part of who I am. Disability pride has released me from this ambivalnce. I don’t want to be fixed, I don’t want a cure, or to be woken up with a ‘normal’ leg, like I used to dream about. My disability could never be taken away from me. If it ever was, there would be a big hole left in me – I feel empty and sad imagining life without my disability. I am different from other people, and I like it! I don’t want to be like anybody else in the world. I wouldn’t choose another journey. I wouldn’t choose an able-bodied body over my own. I would choose my leg, my disability and my life. Every. Single. Time. If it wasn’t for my disability, you wouldn’t have been reading these words. If it wasn’t for my disability, I wouldn’t have been me. 

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Parenting Through a Global Pandemic

CW: COVID-19 and related anxiety.

There would be no reader of this post who isn’t affected by the COVID-19 global pandemic. Such global crisis and uncertain times highlight much of parenting love and angst, all mixed together. 

Although it has been reported that young children are less vulnerable to the virus, I’m sure every parent in our community has some level of concern, anxiety or fear. Every parent’s greatest wish for their child is their health and safety, and the idea that a potentially-deadly-no-cure-no-vaccine virus is terrifying. 

During the last few days, as health concerns have escalated here in Victoria, my anxiety has escalated with it. No reassurance about low risk groups has reassured me. The apparent lack of update by the government regarding the chance of contraction in the community also seems bizarre and contribute to my worries. I was especially concerned when I met a father whose child has been at home from school due to a confirmed COVID-19 case in her classroom. Instead of isolating, she was playing on our local playground equipment, which my toddler, along with many other children, innocently touches right before rubbing his face. How can the government be so sure this child did not have the virus (asymptomatically) and then passed it on to dozens of children? 

I spent many hours the last few days reading and watching the news, even symptom checking. Instead of enjoying my daily outings with my son, I’ve been constantly wondering if I should even take him out of the house, incessantly wiping his hands while lashing out “Don’t touch anything!” as we’re walking. I know I’m not the only one. Although rationally I know none of my immediate family members are in a high-risk group, my anxiety switch has been turned on, and I’m on high alert. These feelings remind me of wars and terrorism periods I experienced growing up – everyone on edge, community life in the shadow of uncontrollable forces. 

I am terrified I’ll die from COVID-19 and leave my most precious human behind, to deal with this unstable, unkind (read: lacking toilet paper and rice) world. I worry that we’d end up on the wrong side of statistics, and my child would contract the virus, and dare I write it, even die. 

Before I had become a mother, I used to consider myself almost fearless. Looking back, I wasn’t fearless– I definitely would get scared, but I’d be able to avoid those feelings enough or channel adrenaline to do things. I’ve dealt with many challenges growing up, and uncertainty was as an inherit part of my life as a cup of milk. When would operations stop? Would there ever be peace and bombing stop? These were regular contemplations. Now, as a mother, I’m no longer fearless or able to forget about my fear. I am scared about everything when it comes to my child. Amongst other things, I worry about the state of the earth we are leaving for him and his generation, about his health and development, and about my own life so that I don’t leave him. When the threat to life seems so tangible, these anxieties come marching forward. 

What I find almost as encompassing as the anxiety for life my child brought into my life, is the joy and mindfulness he brings me every day. The other day, after a day of worry, hand washing and much home-based play, I spent about 20 minutes with my toddler, laughing. He was naked, free and careless as only a child can be right now, and we were looking into each other’s eyes. He was standing on my lap and I pretended to drop him or kissed him or just talked in the ridiculous tone I’ve got he finds hilarious for some reason. My dopamine levels went up immediately and I got absorbed in the game completely. I reflected on how the highs and the lows of parenting are so intrinsically linked, exhausting and wonderful – just like life itself. Being a mother means I have a greater capacity for acute fear but also pure joy, sometimes all at once. 

As you and many others around the world may be quarantined and unable to engage in your usual self-care activities, we could all turn to children for ways to find internal peace and joy. If you’re a parent, connecting with your child for a few minutes of uninterrupted play is extremely valuable for you both. If you don’t have children or a small relative you can call over the internet, tuning into our internal child might be key. What did you used to love doing? Drawing, singing, dancing, reading, music? These are all things we can do in our bedroom or living room. Connecting with others (even if electronically) could do so much good to everyone during these tough times.

I wish everyone safe and healthy times ahead.

Until next time,

L. K. Bridgford  

P. S. if you have a question for me or a topic you’d like me to write about – reach out by commenting or connecting on social media. 

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Leaving Performance Anxiety at Home

If you follow me on social media, you would’ve seen I’ve had my very first feature in a poetry night. Actually, do you follow me on social media? If not-follow me to support my writing and see what I’m up to between posts: https://www.facebook.com/L.K.Bridgford/

https://www.instagram.com/l.k.bridgford/

So, what is a feature? In most poetry nights an established poet is introduced, then takes the stage for a longer reading than others, privileged to be a central part of the event. When I first started reading at poetry events, I wondered how one becomes a feature, and looked up at those who were skillfully presenting. I’ve observed that majority of feature poets I’ve seen are at least 1. Regular attendants at such events 2. Great poets 3. Strong performers and sometimes 4. Published. 

At the time I wasn’t a regular attendant, I barely considered myself a poet, and my performances resembled more of a frightened kitten in a pet shop than a confident spoken word performer. With time, my confident grew and my performance improved. If I’d recorded myself and put the videos one after the other, you’d see my head and gaze gradually moving up from my phone towards the audience, to a point I could make eye contact. You’d also hear my voice rising with each night. The shake of my hands slowly dissipated, so I could use them to hold the microphone or gesture alongside the words of my poems. 

Then I was gratefully and kindly invited to become a feature in a local poetry night called Be Mused – Poetry & Humanity. I was somewhat nervous about it. I knew it was a unique opportunity to showcase my skills, connect with the poetry community, as well as receive some feedback and recognition for the work I’ve been doing. It was also a chance to prove to everyone (myself especially), how much I sucked. 

I got as organised as I could before the feature; decided on an outfit (which I ditched in the last minute), decided on poems to read and the order in which to read them (which I changed a few hours before the night). I took a couple of the poems to my writing group and received the worst feedback about one of them. “The line…is the most poetic line in this text, and I don’t like it.” I took the feedback quietly, with a smile and an open mind. I pondered what this feedback meant for hours and reached several possible conclusions: 1. This poem sucks. 2. This person didn’t like this poem. 3. I am useless as a writer & poet and should give up immediately. 4. The poem has potential, but it’d need a complete re-write. or 5. I have excessively high self-confidence, therefore my ability to objectively reflect on my writing skills is zero. Therefore I probably suck at writing, but at other things I think I’m good at too. I most definitely should not go on stage to perform as a feature poet and embarrass myself. I didn’t want to be seen as overconfident and presumptuous. 

Eventually I settled on options 2 and 4 as most comfortable to handle. After all, I cannot give up now. I’ve already said I’ll be there, and if any or all other options are true, I shall find out on the night. I decided to do the feature anyway and also read that poem, because most other feedback about it was different (i.e. positive) and I wanted to read it. 

In The Zone. Image: a white woman’s face as she is reading a poem into a red microphone. she is wearing brown glasses and colorful artwork is visible behind her.

I remembered what I enjoyed when listening to other people. I decided to do more ‘me’ and less ‘nerves’, leaving my nerves at home. I aimed to be in the moment and connect with my poems and the audience. With this in mind I took the stage (read: just stood at the front of the room). I was incredibly lucky to have support people with me. I was hearing clicks from the audience as I was going along, meaning they liked what they’d heard. ‘I’m not completely rubbish’ I thought as those fingers clicked in the background. My strategy seemed to have worked. Notably, I enjoyed it. 

Are you listening? Image: a woman standing in a dim room, a small light shining towards a stand in front of her. She is looking at the audience, reading into a microphone. Some people from the audience are partly visible in the background.

I walked out refreshed and inspired, as one feels after a long hot shower. The positive feedback is the most exhilarating and scary thing. Self-doubt pops up and says things like ‘What if these were your best poems? it’s all downhill from here’. These doubts and anxieties are to be expected. This is the talk of the achiever side of me, which has been on autopilot for so long. Having to be ‘great’ or the best, because otherwise I’ll just be me (read: disabled human) and that’s not enough. Luckily, I know better than that now. I write because I want to write, writing itself is the goal. The creative side of my brain has been dormant for too long, like a deserted petrol station in a ghost mining town. Now it is finally free, and all I intend to do is let it be.

Goodbye, performance anxiety. 

Feeling like a real poet with my poems organised and ordered in a folder. I also got lucky in the draw, supporting the Australian Red Cross. Image: a book laid on a black folder. The book is Unexpected Clearing – Poems by Rose Lucas.

Until next time. 

L. K. Bridgford 

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The Power of Silence.

I’m writing this as I’m sitting in my finally quiet livingroom. It is extremely refreshing to hear my own thoughts, or even generate some. Many of us are often scared or get uncomfortable with silence. 

In our everyday life, many of us avoid silence, probably because we are scared, anxious, or have negative views about silence. When we are alone in silence, we almost immediately jump to check our phones for notifications, emails, social media, anything to distract us from our silence. We often put on some music, podcast, anything to be playing loudly. Sometimes we need it just to tune down the volume of our thoughts or feelings, sometimes we cannot tolerate a minute of silence without an activity. I’m guilty of this too- I rarely get a chance to sit in silence. But when I’m so lucky to experience it, I savour those silent moments. 

We also avoid silence when we are spending time with other people, either in person or over the phone. Many of us attribute silence to having nothing to talk about, tension, boredom, disrespect or disinterest. We jump in to fill in the gap between sentences or words, just to ‘keep the conversation going’. Many of us prefer insincere or superficial conversation to silence.

My view on silence is very different, and here are the reasons I treasure silence rather than shun away from it. 

Working in mental health I found silence to be an extremely powerful tool we can all use more often. Sitting in silence with someone means I am giving them space. Providing opportunities to think, process, come up with their own words and ideas, change perspectives. These things won’t happen to any of us without time and space. Silence provides exactly that. 

Silence with ourselves gives us time to listen to ourselves. Many of us get stuck in routines, habits and behaviours we don’t actually like or choose, simply because we don’t listen to ourselves. How many times have you eaten or drank something just because it was there, because of a habit, or to alleviate feelings? Sitting in silence provides us a rare opportunity to listen to what our minds and bodies truly desire. My desire and will to start writing again after many years, has sprouted in silence. As I sat in silence I found this truth, which is now an integral part of me. 

Silence with other people is powerful both in new and old realtionships. In an existing relationship you can strengthen it by giving an old friend or partner an opportunity to express themselves anew. They can tell you how they are truly feeling or talk about previously unspoken topics. Even without saying a word, sitting together in silence can certainly be a bonding activity. It doesn’t have to be in nature’s serenity. The living room couch or the local café can have a similar effect. 

In a new relationship, silence can indicate to the other person you have patience. You don’t need to jump in with suggestions, ideas, solutions to other people’s lives. You can portray yourself (and be of course) a better listener. You can just be with someone. I also think silence can indicate confidence and emotional intelligence, as someone is comfortable enough with waiting before reacting, proving they are not afraid of silence, nor do they need to say everything that comes through their mind. When we give people space, we are respecting them for having a valuable contribution to the discussion that should be heard, and thus expressing that they are valuable humans. Another secret about silence is that it gives you time to observe others, think and be more mindful of your reactions.

Of course we don’t want to over-use silence and not respond at all to other people. It is meaningful when used appropriately, with an empathetic response after the other person has finished saying what they needed to say. For ourselves we also don’t want to sit alone and isolated in silence for too long. The risk of you doing any of these two might not be high, as our society often encourages us to move along and avoid silence, within ourselves, and within our relationships. 

So I am challenging you to try silence. To sit in the discomfort of silence for a few minutes and see what happens. 

L. K. Bridgford 

A Silent Winter Morning in Melbourne