There are pauses in life
that stretch like thin threads
between two cliffs
fragile, invisible,
yet holding everything that matters.

In those long silences
when the air thickens
and the mind becomes
a loud companion,
I wonder
are these pauses gifts of grace,
spaces to gather courage,
a chance to map the next step forward?

Or are they doorways through which
fear seeps in
and takes its seat inside my chest?

The world rushes on, demanding answers
before the question
has even settled in my heart,
results before thinking,
certainties before truth.

But the pause resists all that.
It stretches time,
urging me to wait,
to listen to what I am not ready to say.

In the examination room,
that silence can last forever.
My eyes stare into space
while the clock on the wall
bears witness to my hesitation.

Between patient and physician,
there are lifetimes of unspoken thoughts.
Who will surrender first?

Usually, it is me
my courage trembling out
as I blurt the words,
sometimes with tears,
what I have rehearsed
and swallowed too many times before.

And you, doctor,
keeper of charts and coded phrases,
how do you receive my words?
Do you hear the fear
beneath my faltering sentences,
the plea for understanding hidden in the small talk?

Or do you type, detached,
transforming my pain into data?
Are you truly listening,
are you hearing the story I have
kept within me for so long?

Please
tread softly.
There are things
I can barely tell myself.

If you meet my silence
with patience instead of haste,
if you lean gently into the stillness between us,
perhaps I will find my way
past the trembling pause
and finally speak the truth
that names my hurt.

Sometimes, what heals is not the medicine,
but the mercy of being heard
after the silence ends.

Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.