Sitting in the Quiet

Every year, for nearly two decades now, I’ve observed a practice that runs counter to the culture around me—counter to the way I was socialized, counter to the hustle I was taught was emblematic of success. I stop. I step away. I enter sabbatical.

And each year, it teaches me something new—about time, about presence, about what it means to listen deeply to the pulse of one’s own life. Each year, I learn more about myself.

This year feels different.

Not because the world has grown any quieter—in fact, it’s quite the opposite. The world feels more volatile, more dangerous, more desperate for attention. But maybe because of that, the call to stillness feels even more urgent.

This year, I feel the pull of the old monastic question: What is mine to do?

Not what can I do. Not what should I do. But what is mine to do—drawn not from ego or anxiety or obligation, but from alignment, clarity, and love.

Given the strife and struggle in the world, given the pervasiveness of fear and anxiety gripping so many, what is my work to do? From the love and clarity that stem from my own inner and outer alignment, what is it that only I can do?

I ask the question, but the truth is: I already know the form my work will take. My work will involve writing. Writing is my way of mitigating suffering.

Sabbatical, for me, is not a vacation. It is not a pause in the action. It is the action. It is the moment where all the noise I’ve internalized—about productivity, urgency, performance—meets the silence I’ve neglected.

And in that silence, I hear the whispers of the soul:

Rest, child. You are not a machine. Your worth is not your work. Step outside. Let the sun hit your face. Let the ache in your body speak. Let the griefs you’ve shelved find breath. Let joy surprise you. Let nothing urgent define you.

This summer, I will remember what it means to live by a different rhythm. To walk without measuring distance. To speak less. To tend to the deeper roots.

And if you, too, feel the hum beneath the hustle—the quiet invitation to go slower, to go inward—I hope you’ll listen.

You don’t have to disappear to be found.

You don’t have to produce to be worthy.

You don’t have to be in motion to be on the path.

Sometimes, the most radical thing a leader can do is stop moving. Sometimes, the bravest act is to go still.

I’ll be there, in the stillness. Sitting in the quiet. Listening.