We were taught that strength always roars. That it's demonstrated with energy, with firm words, with constant action. But with time—and with some wounds—we learn that sometimes true strength doesn't shout… it disguises itself as calm .

That calm that comes after crying. That pause where there's no energy left to argue, only to breathe. That serenity that seems like resignation, but is actually maturity. Because when you've weathered too many storms, you stop reacting with noise and start responding with silence.

Calm doesn't always mean everything is alright. Sometimes it means you've learned to trust. That you've let go of control, that you've stopped fighting what you can't change. That you understand there aren't always answers, but that's okay too.

That calm is strength, because it takes more courage to remain still when everything is burning than to react impulsively. It requires faith to believe that God's timing is also at work when nothing is visible happening.

So if you're silent, if you feel you no longer have the energy to explain, if you choose to breathe instead of shouting… don't think you've given up. You're learning the wisest language of strength: the calm that sustains, the calm that heals, the calm that trusts .

"In rest and repose you will be saved; in quietness and trust will be your strength."
Isaiah 30:15