I No Longer Rush to Answer
Someone asked a question.
It wasn’t difficult, and it wasn’t new. I had an answer – perhaps even a good one – on the tip of my tongue. But I didn’t speak. I waited.
Not because I was unsure but because I no longer feel the need to be first in line to respond.
The rhythm of reply
There was a time when I thought speed meant clarity, that a fast answer showed intelligence, and that to pause was to risk appearing unprepared, uncertain, and weak.
But age – or perhaps something else – has changed the rhythm.
Now, I find myself waiting. Letting the question rest between us for a moment. Feeling its weight. Hearing what else it might carry beside its surface.
And sometimes, I don’t answer at all, not out of avoidance but because the question begins to change when given room.
What speaks in the silence
In the quiet space before response, something deeper can stir — not always, but often enough to trust it.
Maybe the person asking isn’t truly looking for an answer.
Maybe that person is reaching for understanding — or simply for presence.
Maybe I don’t know what I think yet. And maybe, that’s fine. Pausing is no longer uncomfortable. In fact, it feels like respect for the other, for myself, for what lives between us.
The silence becomes part of the conversation. It doesn’t interrupt. It contributes.
The maturing of thought
There’s a difference between reacting and responding. One happens quickly, often out of habit. The other takes time, not because it’s slow, but because it includes more.
Thoughts can be like fruit. They need time in the sun. Time in the body. Time to breathe.
With age — or simply with attentiveness — you begin to see that answers given too soon may be answers to the wrong question. You begin to feel how wisdom doesn’t always arrive at the pace of speech.
A different kind of knowing
Sometimes, what I say now surprises even me. Not because it’s clever, but because it feels more whole — like it came not just from my mind, but from somewhere I was willing to wait for. And sometimes, what I don’t say speaks more clearly than what I could have offered. A hand on the table. A breath. A shared silence that lets the question live a little longer.
I no longer rush to answer. And strangely, I no longer worry about not knowing. There’s peace in being quiet when nothing needs to be filled.
What if your best answer is not your fastest?
And what if the person in front of you already feels heard, just because you didn’t hurry to reply?
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