Once I realized I didn’t have to make small talk, or sound a certain way, or explain my life choices, I was able to let my mind go and really think about why I was there and what I was doing with my life — and the best part is, I didn’t have to explain it to anyone. I could sit by the river in silence, allow nature’s voice to fill the air, and just be present with myself.
“It did not go well at all.”
That was the assessment my friend Jack gave me about a recent first date he had with a woman. “It was painful,” he expounded. When I asked why it was so painful, he said one word: Silence.
“There were these long stretches where she wouldn’t say anything, I couldn’t think of anything to say, and so we just ate. In silence. It was a nightmare.”
I get it, and I understand. I don’t particularly agree with the assessment that silence is painful, but I understood what he was saying. For me, it’s just the opposite. I once spent a week at a Benedictine monastery in the desert, where the monks took a vow of silence, so those who stayed there did as well. I cannot tell you how thankful I was for that vow when it came to meals. There were those of us who were staying at the monastery — we had paid to stay there — and then there were those who were just visiting for the day, because the place is mind-blowingly beautiful and peaceful. We were all invited to the morning and evening meals. Strangers together in a room, and yet the silence was the rule. This, for me, was wonderful, because there was no chit-chat, no small talk. No one could fill the silence, because the silence was the goal.
I loved this because I am terrible at small talk, and the reason I’m terrible is that I don’t try. I don’t. I make no effort in times when small talk is the game, and I don’t try because I have no problem with silence. I’m much better when the rule is: smile and nod, then just eat your egg, and off you go. I have no issue with eating a meal in silence, or just sitting in silence. It might be because I spent a great deal of time alone as a child and as an adult — I have no idea — but I do know I have never felt the need to fill silence with mouth sounds just because it made me uncomfortable. It doesn’t.
Now my friend Jack is completely different. He has no idea what to do with silence, so he rushes to fill it, or he just sweats it out, hoping someone will say something and break it. He cannot understand silence, and he fears it. Which is why he was so confused when he talked to the girl a day later and she told him she’d had a wonderful time and hoped to see him again. “A wonderful time?” he said. “We didn’t say anything at all — how could she have had a wonderful time?” I thought for a moment, and then I told him: maybe she isn’t afraid of silence.
“Weird,” was his answer.
Silence
A couple of things happened to me during my monastery retreat, and they were good lessons. First, being silent relieves a lot of pressure. You don’t have to worry about saying something stupid or saying the wrong thing. You don’t have to worry about being judged or getting pulled into a conversation about things you don’t care about. You’re free from stories of family trips and pictures of kids, grandkids, and pets. When you’re silent, you understand the pressure that language puts on you, and not having to use it is freeing.
Once I realized I didn’t have to make small talk, or sound a certain way, or explain my life choices, I was able to let my mind go and really think about why I was there and what I was doing with my life — and the best part is, I didn’t have to explain it to anyone. I could sit by the river in silence, allow nature’s voice to fill the air, and just be present with myself.
Something else I learned was how much I needed to be silent. Driving home, I let my gas tank cough and gasp before I finally stopped to fill it. I didn’t want to break the silence. I didn’t turn on the radio; I didn’t listen to music. I just drove home in sweet, luxurious silence, and I didn’t relish breaking it to buy gas and a bottle of water. The silence was a refuge, and I wanted to stay in it. It made me wonder if I’d want to live my whole life that way.
But when I got home and saw my best friend, I talked — and it was different. I had things to say. I wasn’t just saying things because that’s what you do. The conversation with her was welcome, rich, and exciting. I wasn’t talking to fill empty space; I was talking because I’d actually thought of things, and I wanted to say them. It was a subtle difference, but I felt it, and it felt good.
I shared this story with Jack, and he got it, on some level. But after his second date with the woman, he said no more. “I can’t handle the silence. It makes me itchy.” And he never saw her again. It makes sense, really. When I told him about my monastery retreat, he said it sounded like his worst nightmare — he had no idea how I’d done it. He claimed they’d have to rip his vocal cords out to get him through two days like that. He talked about it for the rest of the day. Funny, that.
Why it bothers us
Silence is different for all of us. Some people need it, but in truth, in classic psychology experiments on being alone with one’s thoughts, about 67% of men and 25% of women chose to give themselves mild electric shocks rather than sit quietly in a room for 15 minutes with no distractions. People preferred self-inflicted pain to 15 minutes of silence. That is stunning to me.
“Makes sense to me,” said Jack.
Most people have trouble with silence because it forces introspection, disrupts social rhythms, and triggers a fear of rejection. When conversation stops, or quiet surrounds us, the brain reads the break as a potential threat to social bonds or an unwelcome mirror held up to our own anxieties.
But there’s more to it than that: silence has been used as a form of torture because of its effects on people. In prison, if you’re unruly or a problem, you can be sent to solitary confinement as punishment. Solitary confinement is brutal because it causes severe mental damage, physical illness, and long-term harm to human behavior. Humans need social contact and sensory input to stay healthy. When people are locked alone in a small cell for 22 to 24 hours a day with no real human contact, it breaks down their mind and body. People in solitary confinement experience hallucinations and psychosis — they see or hear things that aren’t there, and can lose their grip on reality. They experience extreme depression and anxiety: deep loneliness that causes intense panic attacks, deep despair, and a high risk of suicide or self-harm. This happens because, in prolonged silence, the brain changes — long-term isolation can shrink the parts that handle memory and logical thinking, while making the fear centers hyperactive. Along with the psychological toll come physical problems: body aches, sleep and digestion issues, and often a lasting difficulty reconnecting with others and the world.
That, of course, is the extreme. But those who fear or hate silence can feel, on some level, trapped and terrified — just like a prisoner. So for these people, silence is to be avoided at all costs. But should it be? Should we fill every moment, every bit of space in a conversation, with something — even if it’s just a sound or an exclamation? Is silence really that bad?
Being present
If you’re doing a nickel in Chino and you’re in solitary confinement for a year or more, that’s when the real trouble begins — nothing changes, day after day, in a 10-by-10 cell. But if you’re out to dinner with a reserved person, it’s a different situation entirely. You’re not trapped, and you’re not being punished. Most importantly, the silence matters, and it shouldn’t be rushed through or ignored.
Be present. It’s an easy thing to say, but if you’re afraid or uncomfortable in silence, it can feel like hell. One way to combat this is to remind yourself that silence isn’t bad — it isn’t a harbinger of doom and defeat, and it isn’t asking to be filled. Silence is okay. Once you’ve come to grips with that, and you stop trying to fill every nook and cranny of a conversation, you’re ready to be fully present. Being fully present means you’re aware of the world around you. You’re not thinking about what to say or how to break the silence — you’re just having dinner, open to what the person across from you is saying, letting them take their time.
Being present also means looking outward instead of inward. You’re not in your head, racking your brain for a topic, or telling yourself she hates me; this is terrible. Whatever the situation is, it just is. Instead of trying to change it or fill it, you let it be and let yourself be with it. You’re not forcing anything; you’re not panicked. You’re just there, and open — and that’s a great place to be, because it lets you be fully with the other person, and it teaches you that silence isn’t a monster to run from.
Being present will help you overcome your fear of silence and appreciate its value. Eventually, you may even come to enjoy a little silence, and learn when to use it.
The interview
When I was in college, I did a radio show. I played music, shared some news, and occasionally interviewed someone — a student doing incredible things, a politician running for office — the usual small-time local radio fare. I hated the interview part of the job, and had no idea why, until I discovered I had a fear of silence. Silence on the radio is death. No one can see you, so everyone listening experiences a deep, unexplained end of all sound. No music, no DJ — just the hum of static. Nothing happening. It’s called dead air, and I hated and feared it. One day, that changed.
I was doing my show — late at night, my usual time slot — talking to a guy running for sheriff. I didn’t much care for the man, and I’d read some pretty unsavory things about him. As the interview went on, I became hyper-aware that he kept quoting Bible verses and speaking in terms of morality and godliness. My instinct was to jump all over him and nail him to the wall. But for whatever reason — my limited patience with lying politicians, the fact that I’d spent the day in the sun with cocktails moving in and out of my hand, or maybe I just didn’t care anymore — I didn’t attack. I didn’t press. I simply asked, “You’re currently under the microscope because it’s been reported that you have a secret family, and that you’ve been cheating on your wife for over ten years. Do you think you’re really in a position to speak of morality?”
I let the question sit there. He said, “Well, that’s… there are circumstances where…” and went silent. He was waiting for me to help him — to throw him a lifeline. On top of that, my deep fear of silence was screaming in my headphones. I said nothing. I just let the silence happen. He tried a few times to break it, saying, “You’ve got dead air, that can’t be good.” Silence. I struggled; he squirmed, until finally he started to talk. He came clean, admitted he’d been wrong, said he shouldn’t be the judge of anyone else, and then slid into a political spin that turned me off, as politicians so often do.
What he said wasn’t the point. The point was that I let the silence do the work. Without giving him a lifeline, covering for him, or helping him through it, I stayed present, waited out the silence, and got the guy to confess and be human for a split second. I faced my fear, embraced the silence, and the outcome was worth it. He wasn’t elected; he got divorced; he dropped out of public life. None of that was because of my interview — but the interview pushed him into a corner and forced him to come clean with voters. That was a win.
Ssshhh
Silence, especially in an interview, can be a powerful tool. Asking a question and giving the person you’re talking to time to answer is very powerful. This isn’t just about gotcha moments — silence gives the speaker time to be honest and dig deep. When you allow silence, instead of pushing someone to just talk or say whatever, you learn more, gain deeper insight, and get a real, honest conversation. If you rush past the silence, you’re sending the person you’re speaking with a signal: don’t dig deep, don’t get real, we’re just glossing over this and giving the audience content. Good content? Bad content? No idea. All you know is that there was no silence in the interview, and that’s supposedly good.
Silence also gives you the chance to actually listen. It shows you that listening isn’t just with the ears — you can listen to how someone’s body reacts, the sounds they make, and when they finally do speak, you really hear the words they chose. What does that word choice say? What do they truly mean? The silence is half the story. Fear it, or push past it, and you’re leaving half the interview on the floor. Don’t do that. Allow the silence.
This is important in a one-on-one interview, but it also helps during kickoffs and other situations with many people on Zoom. Allow the silence, then see who offers more information. It often happens that you’ll ask a question and someone will give the proper answer or the corporate line and then, silence. If you allow that silence, eventually someone on the Zoom call will say something like: “Well, that’s how we’re supposed to do it, but it never works, so what we do now is …” And from that silence, a bit of truth pops out. That truth can lead to deeper conversations and more in-depth work on a brand or campaign. From the silence comes useful information if you’re patient, present, and allow it to happen.
The Takeaway
Jack and I are the same species, having the same dinners, sitting across from the same kind of quiet — and we experience it as two entirely different weathers. For him, silence is a hole that has to be filled before something falls in. For me, it’s just air. Neither of us is wrong, exactly. But only one of us is scared of it, and fear is expensive. It cost Jack a second date with a woman who liked him fine. It nearly cost me a story, on the air, from a man who only told the truth because I stopped offering him a way out of the quiet.
That’s the part worth sitting with: silence isn’t empty. It’s usually the room where the real thing is about to happen — the honest answer, the actual thought, the version of the conversation that isn’t just there to keep the air moving. Rush to fill it, and you get static dressed up as connection. Let it sit, and you find out what someone — or you — actually meant.
It’s the same instinct we build into the work at ThoughtLab. Before we design anything, we sit in Discovery a lot longer than most people are comfortable with — asking, listening, and resisting the urge to fill the quiet with a solution just because a client is waiting for one. It’s the same principle as prove before you build: the answer usually shows up in the silence after the question, not in the rush to answer it before the room gets uncomfortable.
You don’t have to move into a monastery to test this. Next time a conversation goes quiet, on a date, at dinner, mid-interview, try not reaching for the nearest sentence to plug the gap. Let it stretch a beat longer than feels comfortable. Notice what you were about to say just to say something, and ask whether it needed saying at all. That’s the whole practice. It’s not about becoming a monk. It’s about finding out what’s actually there once you stop drowning it out.
