Moments Of Silence

When I was in elementary school, each day began with a moment of silence — along with the Pledge of Allegiance and a few announcements about birthdays and school goings-on.

Only much later did I understand that this moment of silence was meant for prayer and self-reflection. At the time it felt like a punishment — reminding us how to sit still and keep quiet.

I clearly did not heed that warning. I was a chatty child.

Fast forward a quarter century, and we find ourselves in late 2020. I was working with a five-year-old boy I’ll call Benjamin. Quarantine had ended, and Benjamin had grown comfortable enough with me to fully be himself. He didn’t hide his emotions — and I didn’t ask him to.

Like most kids, Benjamin didn’t appreciate being told what to do.

Particularly, immediately after returning home from a long day at school. But putting his backpack a and lunchbox away seemed like reasonable requests.

I asked. He groaned. I insisted. He did did, too.

Please put your backpack away

Ugh

Benjamin

Laura

Please

Ughhh... Later...

This wasn't working, so I changed my approach

Okay Benjamin. I can see you're not happy. I'm not going to talk until you're feeling happy

I AM HAPPY!!

okay... that won't work either... I'm not happy. I not going to talk until I feel happy.

YOU ARE HAPPY

Sad face

WHAT??? YOU ARE HAPPY

shakes head. More sad face.

WHAT LAURA?!

Point to his backpack

WHAT? MY BACKPACK? You want me to put it away? runs to pick up, puts it in the closet.

I'm saved! Thank you Benjamin!!

He had rescued me from the silent prison I had placed myself in — a curse of my own making, but one he eagerly joined me in breaking.

This was the moment that changed everything.

The moment I began becoming a new version of myself — the first version that truly felt like me.

And I owe it to two things:

Benjamin — and moments of silence.

Successful teams support one another in low moments.

When challenges arise, the strongest teams don’t point fingers or assign blame. They assume shared responsibility for the solution, leaving no space for resentment.

Successful teams learn to silence their egos — sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally — allowing trust and collaboration to grow.

Benjamin and I never called ourselves a “team.” He had little experience with teams at that point — it was the pandemic, after all. And childhood partnerships rarely operate with such language.

But over the years, I’ve reflected on why he didn’t walk away in that moment. It wasn’t simply because he wanted attention — he sensed stress in our relationship and wanted to heal it.

So he stayed.

We had each other’s undivided attention.

And a puzzle to solve.

Because even though we weren’t acting like it, we were still a team.

Walking away, I’ve come to realize, would have created pain — stress that might have altered the fabric of our relationship. Whether consciously or not, I believe he felt this. And that feeling guided his behavior.

Children are unique — their unapologetic connection to humanity sets them apart.

That moment changed me.

I began noticing how often we hear but fail to listen. How words, once spoken, can not be retrieved.

In moments of stress, speaking to Benjamin had been futile — not because he couldn’t hear me, but because neither of us was truly listening. We were both simply desperate to be heard.

Words are powerful. They can build or break relationships — provide or strip control.

This nonverbal communication — from a request that he put his backpack away became a routine game of charades — when conflict arose, I simply removed my voice. Although he could, Benjamin seldom walked away. instead staying for a moment of tension to become a nonverbal puzzle to solve.

A game of charades.

We laughed.

We struggled.

We tried again.

And we communicated.

And just like that — we were a team again.

Not after the conflict,

but through it.