Sundays used to be the hardest.
When the kids were little and the house was loud, I used to crave silence even just a few minutes to breathe. But when they started spending weekends somewhere else, the silence became deafening. I didn’t know what to do with all that stillness. The house felt too quiet, the clock too loud.
I would walk around the house and feel the ache of both freedom and loneliness. That’s the strange thing about being a single mom, you spend your days wishing for rest, and when rest finally comes, it feels foreign.
But over the years, I’ve learned that stillness isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s something sacred, a space where healing begins.
When Life Forced Me to Be Still
When I was fighting for custody of my children, my case worker told me something I’ll never forget: Be still.
At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant. My whole world was chaos. Everything in me wanted to speak, defend, argue, explain. I wanted to prove that I was the better parent, the more stable one, the one who deserved to keep her children close.
But instead of reacting, I listened.
I took her advice to heart and began writing instead of talking. I poured my thoughts, my anger, and my fears into a journal. I learned to process my emotions quietly, without letting them spill where they could be used against me.
By being still, my “enemies” didn’t know what I was up to. They couldn’t predict my next move, and that became my strength.
Silence became my strategy.
And in that stillness, I learned that not every battle is fought out loud, some are won in silence, one wise, steady decision at a time.
Stillness as a Single Mother’s Survival Skill
Being still as a single mom doesn’t always look peaceful. Sometimes it’s holding back tears while folding laundry. Sometimes it’s sitting at the dining table alone on a Sunday, knowing your kids are away, and choosing not to let the loneliness swallow you.
Stillness isn’t the absence of pain but it’s learning how to exist with it gracefully.
I used to fill every quiet moment with distraction like cleaning, scrolling, overthinking, just about anything to avoid feeling the ache. But eventually, I realized that the silence wasn’t punishing me. It was protecting me.
It was giving me time to breathe, to think, to rebuild.
In the stillness, I learned who I was outside of motherhood, outside of the relationship, outside of the noise. I found the woman I had lost while taking care of everyone else.
The Healing Power of Sundays
Now, Sundays are different. They’ve become my day for stillness and not the forced kind that used to feel lonely, but the chosen kind that feels like peace.
I light a candle, make coffee, play soft music, and write. Sometimes I read old journal entries and smile at how far I’ve come. Sometimes I cry. But I always end the day grateful because I survived what once felt impossible.
Sundays are no longer empty. They’re full of grace.
They remind me that I don’t have to chase life anymore. I can let it unfold. That healing doesn’t need noise. It just needs space.
The Gift of Being Still
Being still taught me that silence doesn’t mean surrender.
It means strength.
It means protecting your peace and conserving your energy for the things that truly matter like raising your children, rebuilding your life, and reclaiming your joy.
Stillness isn’t the opposite of movement; it’s the foundation of it.
Because when you are still, you can see clearly where to go next.
So this Sunday, if the house feels too quiet and your heart feels too full, take a deep breath.
Be still.
You don’t have to fill the silence.
Let it hold you instead.
You are not alone in your stillness — you are healing in it.
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