Psychology Today | 20.01.2026 23:50
In a waiting room, there’s nowhere to go. I’m mentally tapping an impatient foot. The room is quiet. Too quiet. Every small sound—a paper rustle, a cough down the hall—stands out. It’s the loud sound of silence. Time stretches. I’m listening for my name, or for something to change, and nothing does. That kind of quiet can feel harder than walking down a busy sidewalk. On the sidewalk, there’s noise and movement, but there’s also direction. I’m moving toward something. The sounds pass by and fade. My body falls into rhythm without effort.
