Faith in the Quiet

There was a moment in my life when everything fell silent.

Not the peaceful kind of silence—the uncertain, aching kind. The kind where prayers go unanswered. The kind where all the things that used to make sense suddenly… don’t.

I had just lost someone I loved.
Not to death, but to distance—emotional, spiritual, and everything in between. The kind of loss that’s hard to explain but easy to feel in the chest. I kept trying to find meaning, signs, some reason that would make it all make sense. But all I got was silence.

At first, it felt like failure.
Wasn’t faith supposed to be loud? Confident? Full of answers?
I begged the sky, the ground, the still air—anything—for a whisper of guidance. But nothing came.

Until one evening, I gave up trying to make sense of it. I sat in the dark, on the floor of my bedroom, no music, no distractions, no expectations. Just me and the stillness.

And something happened.

Not a miracle. Not a sign.
Just a shift.
The silence stopped feeling like an absence.
It started to feel like a presence.

I realized I had been filling the void with noise, when what I needed was space.
I had been looking for clarity when what I needed was surrender.
Faith, I learned, isn’t always about knowing.
Sometimes, it’s about allowing.

Allowing yourself to fall apart without rushing to fix it.
Allowing the quiet to settle before demanding a revelation.
Allowing your heart to ache without explaining it away.

That silence? It became sacred.
It became the place where I finally heard the faint hum of something deeper.
Not answers.
Not certainty.
But trust.

The kind that says, I don’t know what’s next, but I believe there’s something waiting for me beyond this.

If you’re in that place right now—lost, paused, wrapped in a silence that feels too loud—I want to say this:
Maybe you’re not broken.
Maybe you’re being held.
Maybe the dark isn’t the end—it’s the pause before the unfolding.

And maybe Whispers of the Wild: The Story of the Forgotten Cubs will feel like a reflection of that stillness. A place where silence speaks and the dark holds more than fear—it holds becoming.