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, I simply sat there thinking whatever drifted into my mind, glancing around the room, waiting for it to pass.

As an adult, I am quite content sitting with my thoughts in silence.

As a child, however, it felt like punishment — like we were all being told to hush for being too loud and disruptive.

The strange thing is, the day hadn’t even begun.

This wasn’t discipline for something we had done, but a warning not to be disruptive in the hours to come.

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

That chatty child became a chatty adult who relishes moments of silence — yet still struggles to make space for them in shared company.

What follows is the story of the moment I finally began to learn this lesson — a lesson that wasn’t really a lesson at all, but something I already knew, somewhere deep down, was valuable.

Sometime 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 given chores after school.

“Don’t forget to put your backpack away and bring me your lunchbox,” I said.

(I’m sure I added “please,” but I won’t give myself too much credit here.)

The backpack had already hit the floor by the time my words reached his ears. There was no way I was getting that lunchbox without, at minimum, a groan — if not a full meltdown.

“Bennn-ja-min,” I said, his name heavy with frustration and expectation.

Groan.

“What, Laura?”

He had heard me, but it didn’t stick. One ear, out the other. And now the task felt like a chore.

At that moment, we were not a team. The sudden presence of hierarchy — of power — created an immediate and unfamiliar tension. It was palpable.

I repeated myself.

He groaned again.

We were getting nowhere.

For reasons I still don’t fully understand, I decided to try something different.

I looked into his eyes, trying to communicate through connection. He looked away.

Our competing words were only severing our ability to communicate.

I wasn’t happy.

He wasn’t happy.

“I’m not going to talk until you’re happy,” I said.

(Spoiler: wrong move, Laura.)

“I am happy,” he said.

Silence.

Then suspicion.

“What?? I’m happy!”

Still, we were getting nowhere.

So I tried again.

“I’m not going to talk until I’m happy.”

I closed my mouth, pretended to lock my lips with an invisible key, and opened my eyes wide — a silent declaration that my full attention was on him.

If he wanted my attention, he would have to work for it.

If he didn’t want it, he was free to walk away.

But he did want it.

So I began to sign something about his backpack and lunchbox. We had been learning basic ASL, though what followed was mostly charades. He quickly understood the rules of the game:

Only he was allowed to speak — guessing the message I was miming.

I pointed to the backpack.

The closet.

The counter.

He guessed each object aloud.

It wasn’t long before we were both laughing.

Eventually, he solved the puzzle.

“My lunchbox… ON THE COUNTER!”

Yes!

I nodded wildly and jumped with excitement as he delivered it to me — still without speaking.

He looked at me, puzzled.

“And… MY BACKPACK IN THE CLOSET!”

He ran off, hung it up, and raced back.

“YOU CAN TALK AGAIN!!”

“YAY!!! 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 wanted my attention. And the only way to get it was to look at me.

So he stayed.

We had each other’s undivided attention.

And there was 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.

This unapologetic connection to their own humanity is what sets children apart.

That moment changed me.

I began noticing how often we hear but fail to listen. How words, once spoken without care, can never 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 grant or remove control.

So my demand that he put his backpack away became a game of charades.

We laughed.

We struggled.

We tried again.

And just like that — we were a team again.

Not after the conflict,

but through it.