“It takes two years to learn to speak and sixty to learn to keep quiet.”

Ah, Ernest. Sir. You really woke up and chose violence with that one.

Because here I am, not yet sixty (thank you very much), and already deeply aware that the second half of that quote is not a suggestion. It’s a survival skill.

Speaking? Oh, I mastered that early.

Opinions? Had them.
Reactions? Immediate.
Comebacks? Lightning fast, occasionally devastating, often unnecessary.

I was efficient. Articulate. Expressive.

And, as it turns out sometimes wildly over-communicative.

Somewhere in my forties, life gently (and by gently I mean repeatedly and with increasing force) tapped me on the shoulder and said:

“You know you don’t have to respond to everything, right?”

Honestly, I did not know.

There’s a particular kind of wisdom that only comes from saying too much at exactly the wrong time.

From trying to fix something that wasn’t yours to fix. From responding when silence would have been more powerful.
From realizing mid-sentence that you’ve already gone too far but your mouth is now on a journey your brain cannot stop.

And then the aftermath.

The replay. The cringe. The “why did I say that?” greatest hits album that plays at 2:17 a.m.

I have a friend who likes to remind me, in Spanish that

“Calladita me veo más bonita.”

Rough translation: I look prettier when I’m quiet.

Now, on the surface, this feels mildly offensive. Potentially patriarchal. Possibly the kind of thing that should come with a disclaimer and a protest sign.

And yet.

There is a sliver of truth there that I cannot ignore.

Because sometimes, opening your mouth is not your best look.

Not because your thoughts don’t matter. Not because your voice isn’t important. But because timing, context, and restraint matter just as much as expression.

Here’s the thing no one tells you when you’re young and wonderfully full of words.

Not everything requires your response.

Not immediately.
Not fully.
Sometimes, not at all.

Silence, it turns out, is not emptiness. It’s strategy.

It’s listening, really listening, not just waiting for your turn to speak.
It’s observing what’s being said and what isn’t. It’s giving yourself the space to decide whether your words will add clarity or just noise.

Because let’s be honest. We are very good at adding noise.

There is also a quiet kind of power in not reacting.

In letting a moment breathe.
In not taking the bait.
In choosing to respond thoughtfully instead of reflexively.

It feels unnatural at first. Almost like you’re missing your cue.

But then something shifts.

You start to notice more.
You say less but mean more.
And when you do speak, people actually listen.

Which is ironic, considering how much we thought talking was the key to being heard.

Now, let me be clear. This is not a manifesto for silence.

Speak up when it matters.
Use your voice when it counts.
Say the hard thing when it needs to be said.

But maybe we don’t need to narrate every thought, correct every comment, or fill every pause like it’s a void that must be conquered.

Honestly, I  am still learning.

Still catching myself mid-sentence.
Still occasionally choosing words when I should have chosen a breath. Still very much not sixty.

But I am closer to understanding that wisdom isn’t just in what we say.

It’s in what we don’t.

So here’s to the pause.

To the unsent message.
To the response that waits a beat longer.
To the quiet that isn’t weakness, but discernment.

Because sometimes, the most beautiful, powerful, and yes prettiest thing we can do is simply say nothing at all.