The Space Between Sounds: Finding Comfort in Stillness
There is a moment after a gong has been played when the instrument is no longer being struck, but the sound continues to move through the room.
The resonance gradually changes.
Some tones become softer.
Others remain noticeable a little longer.
The sound slowly fades until what remains is the environment around us.
Perhaps there are birds outside.
Perhaps there is the quiet hum of the house.
Perhaps there is the sound of someone breathing.
Perhaps there is nothing particularly noticeable at all.
As a Sound Alchemist, I have come to appreciate these moments.
Not because they must produce relaxation.
Not because they are supposed to create a spiritual awakening.
Not because silence automatically means healing.
But because they are part of the music.
The space between sounds matters just as much as the sounds themselves.
And over the years, I have come to understand that the same can be true in life.
There are moments when we are creating.
Moments when we are moving.
Moments when we are speaking.
Moments when we are advocating.
And moments when we choose to become quiet.
I have learned that I do not need to fill every space.
I do not need to respond to every demand.
I do not need to turn every quiet moment into a productive one.
And I do not need to make stillness into another achievement.
Sometimes I can simply be where I am.
That understanding is part of the philosophy behind my work.
Listening First. Nothing Is Required.
The Sound Does Not End When the Instrument Is Struck
When I play a gong, I am not only listening to the initial sound.
I am listening to everything that follows.
A gentle strike may create a resonance that gradually expands.
The sound may develop layers.
Different tones may become more noticeable as the vibrations continue.
Eventually, the resonance begins to fade.
But that fading is not an interruption of the music.
It is part of the music.
The same is true when I work with Tibetan singing bowls.
A bowl produces a tone that continues after the mallet has moved away.
I can choose to introduce another sound immediately.
Or I can allow the existing tone to continue.
Sometimes I wait until the resonance has almost disappeared.
Sometimes I listen to the interaction between two bowls.
Sometimes I leave a longer pause.
Those decisions shape the recording.
They influence its pace.
They create contrast.
They allow individual sounds to be heard.
And they remind me that music does not have to be constant to be meaningful.
There is no requirement to fill every moment with another note.
A pause is not an absence of creativity. It can be a deliberate part of the composition.
Learning to Appreciate the Pause
I have spent much of my life doing things.
Serving in the Navy.
Working.
Writing.
Advocating.
Creating music.
Learning.
Moving.
Managing responsibilities.
Navigating difficult experiences.
And finding ways to continue through periods of tremendous stress.
For a long time, continuing forward felt necessary.
There was always something that needed attention.
Something that needed to be handled.
Something that needed to be completed.
Something that demanded energy.
Living with Complex PTSD has also meant learning how stress can affect my body, attention, sleep, and sense of safety.
There have been times when quiet moments did not feel particularly restful.
Times when my thoughts continued moving even though I was sitting still.
Times when my body felt tense despite having nothing immediate to do.
And times when I wanted rest but found myself thinking about everything that remained unfinished.
I have learned that stopping an activity does not automatically mean the body or mind will feel calm.
Sometimes it takes time to settle.
Sometimes it does not happen at all.
And sometimes the most useful thing I can do is stop expecting a particular response.
I can allow a pause without requiring myself to enjoy it.
I can rest without insisting that I feel peaceful.
I can be still without demanding that my thoughts become quiet.
The pause does not have to become another task.
Stillness Is Not Always Comfortable
I think it is important to acknowledge something that is often overlooked in conversations about meditation, mindfulness, and sound healing.
Stillness is not universally comforting.
For some people, sitting quietly may feel pleasant.
For others, it may bring awareness to physical discomfort.
It may make thoughts more noticeable.
It may feel unfamiliar.
It may create restlessness.
And for someone living with trauma, quiet environments can sometimes feel complicated.
I know from my own experiences that I cannot assume how I will respond to every situation.
Some days I appreciate silence.
Some days I prefer music.
Some days I enjoy movement.
Some days I need to rest.
And some days I want a combination of all of those things.
I do not believe there is one correct response.
I also do not believe that discomfort during stillness automatically means someone is releasing trauma or experiencing a breakthrough.
Sometimes a person is uncomfortable.
That deserves to be respected.
If sitting still does not feel right, movement may be an option.
If silence feels unpleasant, music or familiar background sounds may be welcome.
If closing your eyes feels uncomfortable, you can keep them open.
If lying down causes pain, you can choose another position.
And if you do not want to participate, you can stop.
Stillness should be an invitation, not a demand.
The Difference Between Silence and Being Silenced
As a survivor of sexual violence and Military Sexual Trauma, I have spent years advocating for people whose voices have been dismissed, questioned, or ignored.
I know that silence can have different meanings.
There is the silence we choose.
And there is the silence imposed upon us.
Those are not the same.
Being silenced means having your voice disregarded or suppressed.
It may involve being told not to speak.
Being discouraged from sharing your experiences.
Being punished for telling the truth.
Or being made to feel that your story is inconvenient.
Choosing silence is different.
Choosing silence can mean deciding that a conversation is finished.
It can mean declining to answer a personal question.
It can mean keeping a memory private.
It can mean taking time away from social media.
It can mean choosing solitude.
Or it can mean simply enjoying a quiet moment without explaining yourself.
For years, I have used my voice through poetry, books, music, and advocacy.
I have spoken about rape culture, victim blaming, military service, trauma, and the importance of bodily autonomy.
But being an advocate does not mean I must speak constantly.
I do not have to respond to every comment.
I do not have to participate in every discussion.
I do not have to explain every decision.
And I do not have to make my personal experiences available whenever someone asks.
My silence can be a choice without becoming a surrender of my voice.
That distinction matters to me.
The Space Between Notes Creates Possibility
When I play the hand pan, rhythm and spacing are essential parts of the music.
A melody does not consist only of the notes themselves.
It also includes the timing between them.
A brief pause may create anticipation.
A longer pause may allow a phrase to settle.
A change in rhythm may introduce something unexpected.
Without variation, the music would feel different.
I appreciate that relationship between sound and space.
It reminds me that I do not have to rush from one thing to the next.
When a recording ends, I do not need to immediately begin another.
When I finish writing an article, I do not need to start a new project that very moment.
When I complete a workout, I do not need to prove that I could have done more.
When I finish an appointment, I can allow time before returning to other responsibilities.
I can leave space in my day.
And I do not have to justify that space by turning it into something productive.
Sometimes I want to drink my tea.
Sometimes I want to sit outside.
Sometimes I want to listen to the birds.
Sometimes I want to watch a television show.
Sometimes I want to do absolutely nothing that other people would consider useful.
Those moments belong to my life, too.
They are not empty simply because they do not produce something.
Nature Has Its Own Rhythm
Living in Southern Ohio, I have the opportunity to hear many different birds around my home.
Carolina Wrens.
Mockingbirds.
Blue Jays.
Cardinals.
Robins.
Woodpeckers.
And other birds that make their homes in the surrounding area.
I enjoy their sounds.
Sometimes they become part of the environment while I am recording music.
Sometimes they are noticeable between the tones of my instruments.
Sometimes they are louder than I expected.
But I do not view every natural sound as an interruption.
The birds are simply living their lives.
They are not waiting for my recording schedule.
They are not concerned with whether I am creating a gong session or playing Tibetan singing bowls.
Their sounds are part of the world around me.
And I appreciate that.
When I listen outside, I notice how nature has its own timing.
Birds call and become quiet.
Wind moves through the trees.
Sounds appear and disappear.
There is no requirement for the environment to remain perfectly still.
There is no obligation for every moment to be silent.
This reminds me that stillness does not have to mean the complete absence of sound.
Sometimes stillness is simply the experience of being present in an environment without needing to change it.
Stillness Does Not Require Perfect Conditions
There is an image of meditation that appears frequently in wellness spaces.
A quiet room.
Soft lighting.
A person sitting perfectly still.
Eyes closed.
Breathing slowly.
Everything peaceful.
Everything controlled.
But real life rarely looks like that all the time.
There may be traffic outside.
There may be a dog barking.
There may be someone moving through the house.
There may be physical discomfort.
There may be unfinished responsibilities.
There may be thoughts that refuse to settle.
And there may be days when we simply do not want to meditate.
I do not believe that a meaningful listening experience requires perfect conditions.
You can listen to music in an ordinary room.
You can listen while sitting in a comfortable chair.
You can listen with your eyes open.
You can listen while stretching gently.
You can listen while looking out the window.
You can listen without attempting to control every thought.
And you can decide that listening is not what you want at that moment.
I do not want people to feel that they must create an ideal environment before they are allowed to enjoy sound.
Life is already filled with expectations.
I do not want my work to become another one.
My Relationship with Rest Has Changed
Through my experiences with military service, trauma, chronic pain, and personal recovery, I have learned to reconsider what rest means.
There were times when I believed I needed to keep pushing.
There were times when I measured my days by what I accomplished.
There were times when slowing down felt unfamiliar.
But I have come to appreciate the importance of paying attention to my body.
Some days I enjoy physical activity.
I may ride my bike.
I may walk.
I may practice yoga.
I may explore gentle movement.
Other days, rest is more appropriate.
And there are days when I need both movement and rest.
I have learned that my body does not operate according to a fixed schedule.
Its needs change.
My energy changes.
My pain levels change.
My stress levels change.
And I am allowed to respond to those changes.
I do not have to force myself to complete a workout because I planned it earlier.
I do not have to create music every day.
I do not have to write simply because I have something on my schedule.
I can adjust.
I can pause.
I can begin again when I choose.
Rest is not a reward for pushing myself beyond my limits.
It is part of how I care for myself.
Not Every Quiet Moment Needs to Become Meditation
One of the things I have noticed about wellness culture is how easily ordinary experiences become practices with rules.
Sitting quietly becomes meditation.
Walking becomes mindful walking.
Breathing becomes breathwork.
Rest becomes a recovery protocol.
Listening to music becomes a healing intervention.
These practices can be meaningful for people who enjoy them.
But I do not believe every ordinary experience needs to be formalized.
Sometimes I want to walk because I enjoy walking.
Sometimes I want to ride my bike because I enjoy moving.
Sometimes I want to sit outside because I appreciate nature.
Sometimes I want to listen to music because I like the sound.
Sometimes I want to be quiet because I have nothing I want to say.
I do not need to turn every moment into an opportunity for self-improvement.
I do not need to monitor every sensation.
I do not need to evaluate my emotional state.
And I do not need to decide whether the experience contributed to my healing.
I can simply live.
There is freedom in allowing an ordinary moment to remain ordinary.
The Pause After a Listening Session
When I create a gong or Tibetan singing bowl recording, I pay attention to how the sounds begin, develop, and end.
Sometimes a recording concludes with a gentle fading resonance.
Sometimes the final tones remain noticeable for a while.
And sometimes the recording ends in quiet.
I appreciate allowing the music to conclude without immediately telling the listener what they should have experienced.
I do not need to announce that they are now healed.
I do not need to tell them they should feel deeply relaxed.
I do not need to insist that they have released emotions.
And I do not need to ask them to describe a transformation.
The experience belongs to the listener.
Perhaps they enjoyed the music.
Perhaps they felt calm.
Perhaps they noticed physical sensations.
Perhaps they felt restless.
Perhaps they did not finish the recording.
All of those possibilities deserve room.
The final pause does not need to contain a lesson.
It can simply mark the end of the music.
And the listener can decide what comes next.
Solitude and the Freedom to Be With Myself
Over the years, I have become more intentional about how I spend my time and who I allow into my life.
I value my privacy.
I value my independence.
I value relationships in which boundaries are respected.
And I have learned that I do not need constant social interaction to feel that my life is meaningful.
I enjoy spending time alone.
I enjoy creating music.
I enjoy writing.
I enjoy being in my own space.
I enjoy the freedom to decide what I want to do with my day.
Solitude is not automatically loneliness.
For me, it can be an intentional choice.
It allows me to step away from other people's expectations.
It allows me to focus on my creative work.
It allows me to enjoy ordinary moments without needing to explain them.
And it allows me to decide when I want company and when I do not.
I do not believe everyone needs the same amount of social interaction.
Some people enjoy being surrounded by others.
Some prefer quieter environments.
Some move between the two.
What matters is having the freedom to recognize and honor our own preferences.
I do not need to defend my enjoyment of solitude.
It is part of how I choose to live.
Boundaries Create Space
One of the most meaningful changes in my life has been learning to establish boundaries without feeling obligated to explain every one of them.
I have learned that I can decline an invitation.
I can stop participating in a conversation.
I can choose not to respond to a message immediately.
I can step away from social media.
I can decide that a relationship is no longer appropriate for me.
And I can protect my time without turning the decision into a debate.
Boundaries create space.
Space to rest.
Space to think.
Space to create.
Space to enjoy my own company.
Space to make decisions without constant outside influence.
But I do not believe that space must always be filled.
I can establish a boundary and simply enjoy what follows.
I do not need to replace every relationship I leave.
I do not need to fill every hour I reclaim.
I do not need to justify choosing a quieter life.
Sometimes the space itself is what I wanted.
When the Mind Does Not Become Quiet
There is something else I want to acknowledge.
Even when I choose stillness, my mind may continue moving.
I may think about an upcoming appointment.
I may remember something from the past.
I may begin planning another creative project.
I may notice something that needs to be done.
Or I may simply experience a stream of unrelated thoughts.
I do not believe this means I am doing stillness incorrectly.
Thoughts are part of being human.
I do not need to eliminate them to enjoy a quiet moment.
I do not need to become frustrated because my mind has not reached some ideal state.
And I do not need to interpret every thought as something that requires attention.
Sometimes I notice a thought and return to listening.
Sometimes I choose to write something down.
Sometimes I decide to get up and do something else.
Sometimes I allow my mind to wander.
There is no single response that I must follow.
A quiet environment does not require a quiet mind.
The Space Between Sounds and the Space Between Demands
I often think about how much of life involves responding to expectations.
Work expectations.
Family expectations.
Social expectations.
Medical expectations.
Creative expectations.
Even healing can become something we feel pressured to accomplish.
We are told to work on ourselves.
Improve ourselves.
Process our emotions.
Regulate our nervous systems.
Maintain routines.
Practice gratitude.
Stay positive.
Keep growing.
And while some of these practices may be useful, the constant pressure to improve can become exhausting.
I do not believe every moment of life needs to be dedicated to becoming a better version of ourselves.
Sometimes we need space from expectations.
Sometimes we need to exist without a goal.
Sometimes we need to stop evaluating our progress.
Sometimes we need to remember that we are human beings, not endless projects.
When I listen to the fading resonance of a gong, I am reminded that I do not have to rush to create another sound.
The space is allowed to exist.
And so am I.
Stillness Can Look Different for Everyone
I do not want to define stillness so narrowly that people feel excluded from it.
Stillness does not always mean sitting without moving.
It does not always mean silence.
It does not always mean closing your eyes.
It does not always mean meditation.
For one person, stillness may involve sitting quietly with a cup of tea.
For another, it may involve listening to music.
For someone else, it may involve watching birds outside.
Another person may experience a sense of ease while walking.
Someone may prefer gentle movement because remaining in one position is uncomfortable.
And another person may not want stillness at all.
I believe we can respect those differences.
I do not want anyone to feel that they must experience stillness in the same way I do.
I do not want someone to believe they have failed because they cannot sit quietly.
I do not want someone to push through pain to maintain a particular posture.
And I do not want anyone to feel obligated to pursue calm simply because a wellness practice suggests it.
There is room for individual choice.
There is room for curiosity.
And there is room to decide that something is not right for you.
Listening to What Is Already Here
Sometimes, when I am in my studio, I stop playing and simply listen.
I hear the remaining resonance of the instruments.
I hear the sounds outside.
I notice the environment.
I may hear birds.
I may hear the movement of air.
I may hear ordinary household sounds.
There is nothing extraordinary about these moments.
And I appreciate that.
I do not have to create something meaningful every time I enter the studio.
I do not have to record every musical idea.
I do not have to produce an album.
I do not have to transform every experience into content.
Sometimes I can simply enjoy being there.
The instruments are present.
The room is present.
The world outside continues.
And I am allowed to take a moment without asking anything more of myself.
An Invitation to Notice the Space
If you choose to listen to one of my gong, Tibetan singing bowl, or hand pan recordings, you might notice the spaces between the sounds.
Perhaps you hear how a tone changes as it fades.
Perhaps you notice a pause before the next note.
Perhaps you become aware of the environment around you.
Perhaps you enjoy the contrast between sound and quiet.
Or perhaps you do not notice any of those things.
That is okay.
You do not have to listen in a particular way.
You do not have to search for silence.
You do not have to become still.
You do not have to regulate your breathing.
You do not have to feel peaceful.
You do not have to experience a breakthrough.
You can listen for as long as you want.
You can stop whenever you choose.
You can return another day.
And you can decide that something else would feel more welcome.
The space between sounds is not a test of your ability to be present.
It is simply part of the music.
There Is Nothing You Need to Fill
I have spent years reclaiming my voice, establishing boundaries, exploring my relationship with my body, and creating a life that reflects my values.
I have written books.
I have released albums.
I have advocated for survivors.
I have continued living with Complex PTSD.
I have experienced grief, pain, change, and periods of tremendous stress.
And I have learned that I do not need to fill every moment with effort.
I can rest.
I can choose solitude.
I can enjoy nature.
I can listen to music.
I can allow a recording to end.
I can leave a conversation unfinished when continuing would not serve me.
I can spend time doing something simply because I enjoy it.
And I can allow quiet moments to exist without assigning them a purpose.
The space between sounds reminds me that life does not have to be constant movement.
There can be pauses.
There can be changes in rhythm.
There can be moments of silence.
There can be moments of uncertainty.
And there can be moments when nothing particular is happening.
Those moments are part of life, too.
I do not have to make them extraordinary.
I do not have to turn them into lessons.
I do not have to measure their value.
I can simply allow them to exist.
Just as I allow the resonance of a gong to fade naturally.
Just as I allow a Tibetan singing bowl to finish sounding.
Just as I allow a hand pan melody to come to an end.
I can allow space in my life without rushing to fill it.
And perhaps that is one of the most meaningful things I have learned.
Not that stillness will always bring comfort.
Not that silence will always feel peaceful.
Not that every pause will lead to healing.
But that I am allowed to choose when to stop, when to begin again, and what I want from the moments in between.
Listening First. Nothing Is Required.
About the Author
Julie Jewels Smoot is a United States Navy veteran, author, poet, survivor advocate, and Sound Alchemist. Living with Complex PTSD, she draws upon her experiences with trauma, military service, creative expression, movement, and personal recovery to explore the importance of rest, boundaries, autonomy, and listening.
Her original recordings feature gongs, Tibetan singing bowls, hand pan, and other instruments. Through her music, poetry, articles, and guided listening experiences, she offers opportunities to explore sound without pressure to achieve a particular emotional or physical outcome.
Her guiding philosophy is Listening First. Nothing Is Required.
Explore her music, writing, and listening experiences at:
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