When Silence Feels Dangerous

Silence has become a rare commodity in today’s world. Stillness feels almost dangerous. When the room goes quiet, we reach for something—anything—to fill the space. Our bodies tighten at the prospect of being unoccupied. This feeling isn’t new, but in recent years, it’s become much more common and intense.

It’s important to note that this tendency doesn’t stem from laziness or moral weakness. It’s a product of our nervous system, rewired by endless stimulation and learned distrust created by crafty algorithms that have made quiet feel like a threat. Seeking distractions has become so ordinary we no longer question it. Resisting them isn’t simply a matter of self-control; it’s an act of rebellion.

Today, we’re bombarded by nonstop information, notifications, and social expectations. We live in a world where productivity is praised, multitasking is normalized, and being busy is seen as a badge of honor. This environment has trained our nervous system to be on high alert, constantly scanning for the next “important” thing. The result is that many of us live in a state of constant vigilance—not because we choose it, but because it’s what we’ve learned to expect.

In my work as a Licensed Mental Health Counselor and dance/movement therapist, I see this every day with my clients, who struggle with these challenges chronically. It’s especially prevalent in clients with OCD, eating disorders, and PTSD. My work is to help them understand how their nervous systems react to overwhelm, especially when stillness feels unsafe.

One client, a young woman recovering from an eating disorder, told me that sitting still “felt like torture.” Her days were filled with constant movement—walking, stretching, and cleaning—not just as a way of managing eating and weight, but to keep from feeling what was underneath it. Part of our work involved taking that movement away—not as a punishment, but as a way of helping her begin to tolerate stillness and face what she’d been running from. The anxiety that surfaced in the quiet was intense—even unbearable at times. But it was where the work began.

Together, we found alternative ways for her to cope. We practiced noticing and naming emotions instead of avoiding them. She learned how to ride the wave of discomfort without automatically reaching for motion. Over time, she began to experience small moments of safety in the stillness—not because the anxiety was gone, but because she was learning to stay with herself through it.

Many of my clients describe feeling “tired but wired”—overwhelmed, yet unable to rest. One client with chronic anxiety told me she’d lie in bed each night feeling like her body was trying to shut down while her mind was racing. She would scroll for hours until her eyes burned—not because it helped, but because the silence felt unbearable. What helped her was not forcing stillness, but introducing small, predictable routines that gave her nervous system something steady to hold on to. Over time, that steadiness allowed her to find moments of rest she hadn’t felt in years.

Why Routine Matters

Distraction soothes in the short term. Feeling anxious? Scroll for a few minutes. Lonely? Turn on the TV. Bored? Check your messages. These are common reflexes. The problem is that when we avoid stillness at all costs, our nervous system loses its ability to regulate. It never truly lands.

Our nervous system was never designed for constant input. It thrives on rhythm: sleeping and waking, working and resting, stimulation and recovery. When that rhythm is disrupted, the body can’t fully settle. Clients often describe feeling “tired but wired,” restless, fatigued, and perpetually behind on both rest and responsibilities.

Here’s where routine matters. It offers a counterweight to distraction, a way to step into silence with something steady, chosen, and safe. Instead of filling every pause with background noise, a rhythm of simple daily practices creates a structure you can lean on.

Still, many people resist the idea of routine and discipline. Why? Both words often bring up feelings of rigidity, control, or punishment. For some, discipline meant authority figures demanding obedience. But there’s another kind of discipline: one that comes from care. It’s the discipline of giving yourself enough structure to thrive—not because someone else imposed it, but because you know you deserve the steadiness it brings.

The truth is we already live inside routines, although we rarely label them so. Reaching for your phone in every pause or turning on the TV at night are routines built out of repetition until they feel automatic. The point isn’t that phones or TV are wrong. Both can be part of a healthy rhythm when they’re chosen rather than reflexive. Watching an episode of a show you love before bed or calling a friend to feel connected can absolutely be part of a nourishing structure. The difference is whether these habits support you or create avoidance.

The goal isn’t to eliminate the reflex, but to redirect it: a morning ritual of tea or journaling, a predictable bedtime, regular mealtimes. At first these take effort, but with time and repetition, they become just as familiar as scrolling. The difference is that they restore instead of deplete. They become useful once they’re both predictable and supportive, boundaries that hold you up rather than box you in.

Over time, what begins as discipline ripens into rhythm. And rhythm, once chosen and caring, becomes quiet freedom.

Beginning Anyway

The hardest part is getting started. Distraction promises comfort right now, while routine offers benefits that only arrive later. The gap between those two can feel impossible to cross.

One way forward is to start small—so small that it feels almost laughable. For example, two minutes of journaling, one deep breath outside, or putting your phone away fifteen minutes before bed. The point isn’t to overwhelm yourself with change, but to signal to your body that change is possible.

Motivation rarely arrives first; it follows action. With each repetition, your nervous system begins to expect and crave the rhythm you’re creating. What feels forced in the beginning can, over time, become the thing you naturally reach for.

This isn’t an invitation to eradicate distraction, but to cultivate rhythm and routine. Distraction isn’t always negative. For many, it can be a helpful way to manage intense emotions or distress in the moment. Learning when and how to use distraction healthily is part of the journey.

Perhaps you begin with one non-negotiable: breakfast without a phone, a daily walk, or going to bed at a consistent time. Over time, these choices become a scaffolding and a way of saying to yourself, I am worth the stability I create for myself.

In a world where every pause begs to be filled, routine is how we reclaim space. Not to escape life, but to live it more fully.