The Silence Between Crashes

Eryn didn’t realize how much of herself she’d given away until the silence started to feel like peace. For years, she had lived tethered to an invisible string, constantly anticipating the next yank, the next sharp correction. Her days were a series of calculated maneuvers, each word weighed, each action filtered through the unspoken question: How will Anthony react? The quiet she now inhabited was not the oppressive, heavy silence that followed Anthony’s scathing remarks, nor the hollow echo of unspoken grievances that permeated their shared home. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came from passive-aggressive wars over dinner, where the clinking of silverware sounded like tiny, mocking bells, or long nights where the bed felt colder, emptier, with him feigning sleep beside her. No, this was different. This silence wrapped around her like a balm, soft and necessary, like aloe over sunburn, soothing wounds she hadn’t even fully acknowledged were there. It came three weeks after she left Anthony. Three weeks after she’d finally stopped waiting for him to change, for him to become the man she’d invented in the gaps between his insults and his temporary sweetness – a construct of hopeful fiction built on a foundation of cruel reality.

At 54, Eryn wasn’t supposed to be starting over. That’s what everyone implied with their well-meaning glances and half-assed sympathy. “You’re so strong,” they’d say, their voices tinged with a pity she found grating, as if strength wasn’t sometimes just the final, brittle form of exhaustion. As if she hadn’t reached a point where the only remaining energy was just enough to walk away. What they didn’t know was that leaving wasn’t the brave part. Staying had been. Staying, day after day, year after year, hoping against hope, enduring the subtle erosion of her spirit, the constant chipping away at her self-worth – that was the true, agonizing test of endurance. That was the bravery that had nearly broken her.

The bravery came later. It came not in a grand, dramatic gesture, but in quiet, deliberate acts of reclamation.

It came the day she walked into the studio apartment she rented with her own damn money and opened all the windows. The air, heavy and stagnant from weeks of her own apprehension, finally stirred, carrying away the lingering scent of fear and doubt. She inhaled deeply, tasting freedom on her tongue, metallic and exhilarating. The apartment was small, barely more than a single open room with a cramped kitchenette and a tiny bathroom, but it was hers. Every inch of it. She unpacked slowly, methodically, almost reverently, placing each book on the makeshift shelf she’d assembled herself like a declaration: I’m here now. I exist independently. Each folded shirt in her dresser, each mug placed in the cupboard, was a tiny victory, a tangible piece of her newly claimed territory. There was no need to justify her choices, no need to explain the placement of a vase or the angle of a lamp. It was a space unburdened by Anthony’s opinions, free from his critical gaze.

That first night alone, the silence was almost deafening, a stark contrast to the constant hum of anxiety that had defined her previous life. But it wasn’t empty. It was filled with the nascent hum of her own presence. She made a cup of peppermint tea, its soothing aroma filling the small space, and put on an old Jill Scott record. “Who Is Jill Scott?” played softly, then grew louder, the soulful rhythms seeping into her bones. She hesitated for a moment, a lifetime of ingrained inhibition whispering in her ear, then shrugged it off. She danced barefoot on the hardwood floor—hips looser, shoulders dropped, no one watching, no one judging. Her movements were clumsy at first, stiff from years of holding herself rigid, but as the music flowed through her, a forgotten fluidity returned. She twirled, she swayed, she dipped, laughter bubbling up, light and genuine. It felt like she was shedding layers of old skin, each uninhibited step a defiance against the years of being told she was too loud, too much, too expressive. And when she looked in the mirror, catching her reflection mid-swirl, she didn’t flinch. Her reflection looked tired, yes—lines etched around her eyes, strands of silver glinting in her hair—but real. Unfiltered. Honest. Not the hollowed-out version she’d seen for so long, trying to disappear, but a woman emerging, blinking in the new light. A woman in recovery, from a war she hadn’t realized she was losing.

The first transformation was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but Eryn herself, yet profoundly significant.

She changed her ringtone.

That probably didn’t mean much to anyone else, a trivial detail in the grand scheme of a life upended, but for Eryn, it was a small rebellion, a defiant act of self-assertion. Anthony had hated loud phones. “It throws off my energy,” he would intone, his voice low and dangerous, as if the mere sound of a ringing phone could disrupt the delicate cosmic balance of his fragile ego. Eryn had meticulously kept her phone on vibrate for years, always feeling like she was one missed call away from a fight, her anxiety a constant low thrum, anticipating the glowering silence or the sharp rebuke. Now? Her phone sang out loud, a jubilant gospel loop from The Clark Sisters that filled her apartment every time it rang, a joyful cacophony that startled her at first, then settled into a comforting affirmation. It was loud, unapologetically so, and it was hers. Each vibrant ring was a declaration: I am here. I am visible. I will not shrink anymore.

The second transformation came in therapy. It was a slower, more arduous process, like excavating ancient ruins, dust by painful dust. She wasn’t new to therapy—she’d done the performative kind during her divorce from her first husband, where she’d said all the right things, carefully curated her narrative, and cried only when it felt safe, when it would elicit the desired sympathetic response. But this time was different. This time, there was no audience, no one to impress, no facade to maintain. This time, she didn’t protect Anthony in the retelling. She stripped away the polite euphemisms, the softened edges. She let the words come out ugly, raw, and unvarnished. She admitted to the checking of cameras, a chilling habit Anthony had cultivated, turning their home into a panopticon where her every movement was potentially under surveillance. She confessed how she’d started recording their conversations, not to prove him wrong to an external party, but to prove to herself that she wasn’t crazy, that the gaslighting wasn’t her imagination, that his words were indeed as twisted and cruel as she perceived them to be. Each confession a fresh wound, but also a release, a letting go of the heavy burden of silent self-incrimination.

“You’re not crazy,” Dr. Reed said, her voice calm and steady, every week, until Eryn started to believe it. Her words were a lifeline, anchoring Eryn to a reality Anthony had systematically tried to dismantle. Dr. Reed didn’t just say it; she showed Eryn the patterns, the classic tactics of emotional abuse, providing a framework for understanding the chaos Eryn had lived in. She helped Eryn name the subtle violences, the invisible chains.

Somewhere between week four and week eight, a profound shift occurred. Eryn stopped blaming herself for staying. That was the hardest part—the shame of what she allowed, the insidious belief that she had somehow deserved it, the agonizing shame of what she had mistook for love. The societal narrative that if she was strong, why didn’t she leave sooner, had echoed in her own mind for too long.

“He never hit me,” she used to say, a rote defense, as if physical violence was the only valid currency of abuse. As if emotional bruises didn’t count, even though they festered far deeper, poisoning her sense of self. As if surveillance wasn’t violence, an invasion of privacy so complete it felt like a violation of her very being. As if walking on eggshells in your own home, constantly anticipating the next explosion, wasn’t its own kind of trauma, a slow, suffocating death of the spirit. She finally understood that the absence of a visible bruise did not equate to the absence of harm. The damage was etched into her psyche, a map of the emotional minefield she had navigated daily.

Spring arrived late that year, a hesitant bloom after a prolonged, cold winter, and with it came an email.

From Anthony.

She hadn’t thought he’d find a way to reach her. She’d blocked him everywhere: phone, social media, even changed her primary email address. He must’ve used Gmail, she realized with a familiar pang of dread, finding some obscure old address she rarely checked. The subject line read: “You think you won?”

She didn’t open it immediately. She let it sit in her inbox, a digital serpent coiled in plain sight. She let it ferment, allowing its implied malice to lose its sting against the newfound resilience within her. She could already guess the contents—rage disguised as vulnerability, cruelty masked as confusion, a desperate attempt to reassert control, to pull her back into his orbit of misery. She brewed a cup of coffee, the rich aroma a grounding presence in her tiny kitchen. Then, on a Wednesday morning, spine straight, shoulders back, she opened it.

It was worse than she expected, and yet, simultaneously, profoundly predictable. Every insecurity she’d ever harbored, every unkind word she’d ever heard, hurled back at her with surgical precision. He called her old, her age suddenly a weapon against her. He called her delusional, confirming her past fears that she was, indeed, crazy. He dragged her ex-husband into it, dredging up old wounds with a casual viciousness. He ended by declaring no man would ever take her seriously, a final, poisoned arrow aimed at her burgeoning sense of worth.

She laughed.

Not because it was funny, not a laugh of amusement, but a strange, hollow sound that came from deep within her chest. It was a laugh of profound pity, of incredulity, and ultimately, of triumph. It was pathetic, truly. His words held no power anymore. They were just words, flung from a desperate, decaying ego, unable to find purchase in the fortress she was building around herself. The old Eryn would’ve responded. She would’ve felt compelled to send back a dissertation, bullet-pointed and sourced, meticulously detailing his wrongs, defending herself, trying to make him see. She would have spent hours, days, crafting the perfect rebuttal, investing her energy, her precious emotional capital, into a futile argument. But this Eryn? This new, solid, unshakeable Eryn? She simply deleted the email. It disappeared into the digital ether, a phantom limb she no longer needed. And she whispered to herself, the words a sacred vow, “That’s the last time you’ll get to rewrite me.”

Summer came, painting the city in vibrant greens and golden light, and with it, a new rhythm settled into Eryn’s life. It was a slower, more intentional beat, guided by her own desires rather than external demands.

Eryn joined a pottery class. Dr. Reed had suggested working with her hands, a grounding activity to connect her to the present moment, to give form to the shapeless anxieties she was still processing. On the first day, the feel of the cool, damp clay in her hands was unexpectedly overwhelming. She cried when she touched it, tears silently streaming down her face as she sat at the wheel, her hands sinking into the yielding earth. Not because it was sad, not a cry of grief or despair. But because it was soft and pliable and responsive, unlike the rigid, unyielding relationship she had just escaped. And here, in this quiet studio, she got to decide the shape. She got to impose her will, her vision, onto something beautiful and mutable. She fashioned mugs, sturdy and comforting, with slight imperfections that made them uniquely hers. She made bowls, smooth and functional, perfect for holding her morning oatmeal or a handful of fresh berries. And she made a slightly deformed vase, its neck a little crooked, its base a little uneven, which she named “Healing.” It was imperfect, but it held flowers beautifully, a testament to beauty found in imperfection.

The small acts of rebellion continued, weaving themselves into the fabric of her daily life. She wore bright lipstick to the grocery store, a bold crimson that made her feel visible, alive. She used to eschew makeup, or wear only neutral tones, afraid of drawing attention, afraid of Anthony’s cutting remarks about her appearance. Now, she painted her lips with a flourish, a defiant splash of color against the backdrop of mundane errands. She smiled at men without checking to see if anyone was watching, a genuine, open smile that reached her eyes, devoid of any ulterior motive or self-consciousness. It was simply a human connection, freely offered. She got a part-time freelance gig editing for a local magazine, a small, independent publication focused on community arts and culture. The work was engaging, stimulating, using her mind in a way she hadn’t for years. And then, hesitant at first, she started writing again—short essays, observational pieces, reflections on the nuances of human experience. She wrote about boundaries, about survival, about what it really means to start over at 54, when the world tells you you should be winding down.

Her favorite one, the one that resonated most deeply with her burgeoning spirit, was titled: “The Silence Between Crashes.” It explored the concept of negative space, the precious, often overlooked moments of calm and quiet that exist between the jarring, tumultuous events of life. It was a metaphor for her own journey, finding peace not in the absence of struggle, but in the space she created away from the destructive forces that had once defined her.

By the time fall rolled in, ushering in crisp air and a riot of autumnal colors, Eryn had changed her number. This was not an act born of fear, though a residual tremor of anxiety still lingered in the quiet corners of her mind. This was an act of finality. An assertion of control over her own narrative, a desire to stop letting her past think it still had access to her present, to her future. It was like closing a heavy, iron gate, the sound of its latch clicking shut echoing with the satisfying thud of permanence.

She even went on one date. It was a blind date, set up by a well-meaning colleague from the magazine. It wasn’t amazing, not a cinematic, fireworks-and-violins kind of experience. He was a kind, quiet history professor with a gentle smile and a penchant for antique maps. But it was gentle. They talked about books, about local history, about the subtle differences between different types of tea. He listened when she spoke, truly listened, without interrupting, without correcting, without making it about himself. He didn’t flinch when she said, with a quiet strength that surprised even herself, that she wasn’t looking to be saved. She was looking to build. To grow. To simply be.

She went home alone, on purpose, not because the date was bad, but because she recognized and cherished the quiet sanctity of her own space. She made herself a steak dinner. Medium rare. No compromise. A perfect sear on the outside, juicy and tender within. It was a small, indulgent pleasure, chosen solely by her, for her, without consulting anyone’s preferences or enduring anyone’s criticisms about her cooking. Each bite was a celebration of autonomy.

The final transformation wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no single, defining moment, no grand epiphany. It was a quiet accumulation of small, deliberate acts of self-love, of conscious choices, of moments of peace.

It was a Sunday morning, late in the fall, the air outside crisp but the sunlight warm, almost golden. Eryn woke up slowly, to sunlight spilling across her chest, bathing her in a soft, welcoming glow. The window was open a crack, letting in the faint whisper of the breeze through the turning leaves, the distant chirping of birds. A mug from her own pottery set sat on the nightstand, still warm from her morning tea, a testament to her creativity and self-sufficiency. Her phone lay silent, no missed calls, no looming threats of chaos waiting to erupt. Her home was quiet, not the silence of neglect or tension, but the silence of peace, of safety, of contentment.

And for the first time in years, Eryn didn’t feel like she was surviving. She didn’t feel like she was clinging to the wreckage of a past life, desperately trying to keep her head above water. She felt free. Truly, deeply, irrevocably free. Free from the weight of expectation, free from the shadow of judgment, free from the constant need to please. Free to simply be.

She got up, the hardwood floor cool beneath her feet, and without thinking, she played Jill Scott again. The familiar, soulful melody filled the apartment, a beloved anthem to her journey. And she danced barefoot—hips swaying, arms lifting, shoulders dropped, a genuine smile curving her lips—just because she could. Just because it felt good. Just because the silence between crashes had become the symphony of her own, beautiful life.