The truth is, I have a love–hate relationship with running. On one hand, I love being outside — breathing fresh air, noticing beauty up close that I wouldn’t see otherwise. On the other hand, my chest burns, my breath heaves, and my mind begs me to quit.

That’s why I need the music — loud enough to drown out my own body.

But lately my headphones have been failing me. They disconnect mid-run (faulty Bluetooth), and suddenly I hear everything: the slap of my shoes against the pavement, my ragged breathing, the ache in my chest.

This is what happens when the noise stops. We become aware of our distress — the body crying out, the soul speaking up.

The noise that fills my head isn’t just music. It’s entertainment, opinions, news, even voices of faith. Each one takes up the silence that might otherwise let me hear what’s really going on inside.

When things are too loud, I can’t hear the signals of my own soul — the quiet need to repent, the cry for beauty or rest, the wounds that need tending, the grief waiting to be felt.

Noise distracts and numbs. But it doesn’t heal. It only hides what’s still bleeding.

The invitation, I think, is to quiet the noise. To be slow. To be present to our own souls and bodies.

There is space enough to sit still and listen. Don’t be afraid of it — you are not alone.

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While this lesson was on learning to quiet and listen, my last lesson was on pace.

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