When the House Is Quiet

Mark’s still away on the New Media Cruise. I’ll be picking him up from the train station later today.

This week, while the kids were in school during the day, I’ve held down the fort at home. For someone who works from home with her husband every day, the quiet has felt both strange and sacred. 

There’s something peaceful about it, no overlapping Zoom calls, no shared office chatter, no retreat planning talk during the afternoons…just stillness.

And for the first couple of days, I really enjoyed it. I had space to think, to write, to let my own rhythm completely take over. My creative juices were flowing!

But then, there was one day when the quiet got to be a bit too much for me.

I found myself spiraling over a couple of business things, and something was going on with one of the kids. Nothing major, just the kind of stuff that usually feels lighter when I talk it through with Mark. Without him here, I caught myself feeling like I was carrying it all alone.

There was no one to look at me and say, “Oh, Renee, why are you worrying about this? It’s going to be fine.” And I realized how much I’ve come to rely on that, not because I need it to function, but because it softens the edges of life.

I’ve always been the worrier in our relationship. Mark is pure rainbows and sunshine, the eternal optimist. When I start overthinking, he’s the one who grounds me and helps me see the lighter side.

It’s funny because my parents were the same way. My dad used to tell my mom not to worry, that everything would be okay. Watching that dynamic growing up, I guess I got a little of both, my mom’s worry gene and my dad’s “it’ll all work out” optimism. And somehow, Mark and I have carried that forward in our own way.

This week, though, when I was having my moment, Mark was truly unreachable. We intentionally decided he wouldn’t get the internet package; it’s good for him to unplug once in a while, but that also meant I couldn’t just text or call. (Okay, I do have my person on the inside who can pass along a message if it’s urgent.)

Still, it was strange not having that instant lifeline.

That night, I remembered something I had learned from Debra Poneman, a practice she has been teaching in her courses for over 40 years, about shifting your thoughts when you start to spiral. When those negative moments hit, she teaches you to simply say out loud, “Cancel. Cancel. Cancel.”
It sounds almost too simple, but it’s like a reset button for your nervous system, a quick jolt that helps you step out of worry and back into calm.

So I said it out loud. “Cancel. Cancel. Cancel.”

Within minutes, I felt my tension release, my breath deepen, and my thoughts slow down. It was exactly what I needed to stop the spiraling. 

This week has been an interesting reminder of both my independence and my gratitude. I’m capable, more than capable actually. I can handle things on my own, I always have. But I’m also grateful that I don’t have to do it alone most of the time.

There are so many people who are single parents, solopreneurs, caregivers, the people who hold it all together without someone to lean on. And my heart goes out to them, because I know the weight of that kind of strength.

Being apart reminded me that while I love the peace of the quiet, I also love the noise of connection, the laughter from the next room, the clinking of coffee mugs, the sound of ideas being built together.

This week reminded me that love isn’t just about being together,  it’s about feeling supported, even when you’re apart.