By Donovan R. Martin Sr., Editor in Chief
Image Credit: Şahin Sezer Dinçer
There is an uncanny coincidence that the word listen is composed of the same letters as the word silent. This peculiar symmetry isn’t just linguistic trivia—it speaks to a deeper truth that most of us learn too late or forget too quickly. In an age where speaking louder, faster, and more frequently is equated with intelligence or strength, the quiet art of listening has been demoted, treated almost as a weakness. Yet, it is in silence that listening finds its shape. It is in stillness that understanding begins.
Listening is not simply hearing. One can hear the rustle of papers or the chatter of voices in the background and absorb nothing. Listening is intentional. It is a surrender. And perhaps that is why it feels so rare in today’s world—because real listening requires the silencing of one’s own ego, one’s urge to respond, to correct, to add. The irony is that many people claim to be great listeners, but they are merely silent while constructing their rebuttal. They are not present. They are paused. That’s not listening. That’s waiting to speak.
To truly listen is to be emptied of agenda. It is to let someone else’s truth pass through you without resistance, to acknowledge that their story is not yours to edit. Listening is a sacred act, and silence is its necessary vessel. The connection between these two words—listen and silent—is not just poetic; it’s essential. One cannot truly exist without the other. To listen well, we must first become silent—not just externally, but within. We must mute the internal commentary, the reflexive judgments, the desire to dominate or fix or advise. We must simply be.
There is a strange comfort in being listened to deeply. It is more healing than advice, more intimate than touch. When someone truly listens, without interruption or defense, the speaker begins to hear themselves more clearly. The listener becomes a mirror, not a megaphone. This is the hidden power of silence—it invites others to rise into their own clarity.
And yet, our culture often rejects this position. Silence can feel like passivity. Listening can seem like deferral. We’re trained to equate presence with action, to believe that our value lies in our ability to speak and perform. But the most powerful moments in relationships, in growth, in leadership even, often come when words are put aside. Silence, far from being empty, is teeming with possibility. It is the room where reflection breathes, where empathy stretches out its limbs.
The act of listening doesn’t mean agreement, nor does silence always signify consent. But it offers something rarer than affirmation—it offers attention. It says, I see you. I hear you. I’m not trying to remake you. That kind of presence is profound. It builds trust, even in conflict. It allows for understanding, even when resolution is impossible.
Perhaps the reason these words—listen and silent—share the same letters is because, at their core, they ask the same thing of us: to step out of ourselves. To quiet the noise we carry and make space for something beyond us. To recognize that the most honest connections we make with others do not always come from what we say, but from how deeply we are willing to receive.
Listening is not the absence of speaking. It is the presence of attention. And silence is not a void. It is the soil in which wisdom grows. To master both is not to disappear but to become a different kind of presence—one that doesn’t strive to dominate the room, but one that holds it.
So perhaps the next time we feel the impulse to speak, to fill the air with our views or ideas, we might remember that listening and silence are not signs of inaction or weakness, but the most deliberate and graceful of choices. They are twin practices in humility and connection, asking not what we can add to the conversation, but what we are willing to receive.
In a world desperate to be heard, maybe the most radical thing we can do is to stay silent—and truly listen.
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