The Sound of Presence
A few weeks ago, I sat outside alone on my back porch late at night.
This is one of my favorite things to do. The house was finally quiet - husband asleep, kids asleep - and for the first time all day, I had real silence.
It was a full moon, with an eclipse that night, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t miss it. So instead of going to bed like I probably should have, I slipped outside. I remember closing my eyes and just listening.
It was loud outside with the night sky! There was the low rumble of a train in the distance. A plane overhead. Cars moving along the main road - steady and a little intrusive. Closer to me, I heard cicadas, crickets, and peeper frogs. The leaves rustled as something moved through the yard - probably the neighborhood herd of deer.
And then, underneath it all, I noticed my own breathing.
My own pulse. My own breath. My own energy - pulled in a thousand directions every day - finally starting to settle back into me. I reminded myself to relax my jaw and to release the tension from my shoulders.
That night reminded me what presence really feels like. Not perfect. Not fancy. Just paying attention to what my body was silently screaming.
And presence matters more than we realize.
When I practice it, I notice not just myself, but the world around me - neighbors pulling into their driveways, kids riding by on bikes, families laughing (or yelling) in their yards nearby. These sounds are reminders that life is layered and shared, and we don’t live it alone.
When we practice presence, even in small doses, we show our kids what it looks like to pause, to listen, to trust themselves. We also notice our neighborhoods differently - less through the filter of fear, more through the possibility of connection.
I’m not perfect at this. None of us are. But I keep coming back to this truth:
