I don’t remember exactly when I started fearing silence.
Perhaps it was when smartphones became an extension of my hand. Maybe it was when work email notifications started intruding on the dinner table. Or perhaps it was when I realized that my first reflex every morning—even before my feet touched the floor—was to reach for that glowing little screen. Open eyes, open Instagram. Brush teeth, scroll Twitter. Drink coffee, reply to WhatsApp.
One January morning, I conducted a small experiment. I deliberately left my phone in my room and walked to the kitchen with nothing but... myself. No music. No podcasts. No voices of strangers explaining conspiracy theories or productivity tips.
Just me. The cold floor against the soles of my feet. The kettle was starting to boil. The sound of birds from somewhere unknown.
I sat down. And what I felt next was surprising: panic.
Let me guess. You’ve probably experienced this, too.
You wait for the elevator for eight seconds. Your hand automatically reaches into your pocket, even though there are no new messages. You’re sitting in a café; your friend steps away to the restroom for two minutes, and you immediately pull out your phone. Not because you need to, but because you aren't used to the empty space between moments.
Psychologists call this *horror vacui*—a fear of emptiness. We are so accustomed to being filled, entertained, and notified that silence begins to feel like a threat. It feels as though something is wrong if nothing is making a sound.
By the third minute without my phone in the kitchen, I almost gave up. My mind rebelled: *This isn't productive. I should be listening to a podcast while making breakfast. Or checking email. Or...*
Then, another voice asked: *Why can't you just be still?*
It’s hard to explain, but around the seventh minute, something shifted.
It was like a murky pond that had stopped being stirred. The particles of worry—the deadline the day after tomorrow, a comment someone made last week, an unkept promise, infuriating political news—began to settle slowly. One by one. I didn’t force them away. I simply... stopped stirring.
And then, beneath it all, there was something.
Not a loud voice. More like a whisper. A small idea that had likely been trying to reach me all along but had been drowned out by the chorus of notifications. An idea about this piece of writing, actually. About the project I’d kept in a mental folder labeled "Later" for three months. About the call to an old friend I kept putting off.
Silence, it turns out, isn't truly empty. It’s more like a living room that has just gone quiet after a big party. A bit messy, sure. But that’s where—amidst the leftover confetti and empty glasses—you find a small note that had fallen. Someone had slipped it to you, and only now do you read it.
I recently learned that the experience I had in the kitchen that morning actually has a name in the scientific world. Neuroscientists call it the Default Mode Network (DMN).
Think of it like a cleaning crew at a shopping mall. While the mall is open—meaning your brain is taking in external stimuli like notifications, music, conversations, and screens—the cleaning crew can't work at full capacity. They step aside and wait. But once the mall closes—once you go quiet—they start sweeping, mopping, and tidying up.
And miraculously, it is from this "cleanup" work that the freshest ideas emerge. Solutions to problems that had been at a standstill for a week. A song title that suddenly pops into your head while you're rinsing off the soap. An important decision that suddenly becomes clear after a walk without your phone.
Your brain doesn't need more information. It needs a pause to process the information it already has.
I smiled as I read this. So, all this time, what I thought was "unproductive idleness" was actually a crucial session of brain maintenance?
One thing I want to make clear: this "Heningku" journey of mine isn't anti-technology.
I still love sending absurd memes to friends. I still enjoy documentaries about street artists on YouTube. I still use digital maps because my sense of direction is terrible. Technology is beautiful.
What I’m talking about is intention.
There is a huge difference between using technology and being used by technology. Between opening an app with a clear purpose and opening it because your thumb has a mind of its own. Between enjoying content you’ve chosen and being force-fed content selected by an algorithm to keep you scrolling.
Tech companies have an internal term for this: "engagement." It sounds like a positive word, doesn't it? But it means something simple: how long they can keep your eyes glued to the screen. There are hundreds of brilliant engineers paid handsomely for a single mission: making it hard for you to stop. Notifications are designed like slot machines—you never know if what pops up will be boring or exciting, so you keep checking.
I’m tired. Not tired of working. Tired of being played.
If you ask how to start, my answer is simple: 15 minutes. That’s all.
It’s not a week-long silent retreat in the mountains. It’s not some advanced-level meditation in the perfect lotus position. Just fifteen minutes, tomorrow morning, screen-free.
Here’s how:
Leave your phone in your room... (Yes, intentionally.)
Walk to the living room, the kitchen, the balcony, or anywhere else. Sit down. Drink a glass of water. Gaze at the tree outside your window, the clouds, or a blank wall—it doesn’t matter.
Your mind will protest. Let it. It will tell you that you need to be doing something. Let it. It will tempt you to check just one notification. Don’t.
You and your restlessness. Just the two of you.
I can’t promise your experience will be the same as mine. Maybe the seventh minute won’t bring a brilliant idea. Maybe you’ll just be bored out of your mind. That’s okay. That’s part of the process, too. Boredom is a gateway; you’re just not used to passing through it yet.
What matters is this: for the first time in a long while, you aren’t responding to the world. You are simply... existing.
And believe me, "simply existing" is enough. More than enough.
I'm building this new habit. Sometimes it works, sometimes it fails. There are days when I forget and immediately drown in a whirlpool of notifications until lunchtime. Then I remember, and start again.
"Stillness"—my silence—isn't a goal to be perfectly achieved. It's an invitation. An invitation to occasionally turn off the noise and listen to the voice we hear least often: our own voice, beneath all the layers of distraction.
Next week I'll tell you about my biggest enemy on this journey: the voice that accuses me of laziness. "Why are you proud of your silence?"—it says. But it turns out, there's a big difference between stillness and laziness. And the answer isn't as simple as I thought.
See you in the next letter.
If you've ever felt exhausted by your own phone, respond to my story with yours. Or just be silent....
Silence is okay , as well,
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