Why Silence Is Part of My Practice
- Julie Jewels Smoot
- Jan 25
- 3 min read
Silence is not the absence of work.
It is often where the work actually happens.
In both movement and sound, there is an assumption that something must always be happening—another cue, another tone, another instruction, another layer. But my training, experience, and listening have taught me something quieter and more demanding: sometimes the most ethical choice is to pause.
Silence is not a gap to be filled.
It is information.
Silence is how the body speaks back
Sound and movement initiate conversation.
Silence is where the response arrives.
After vibration moves through the body, something shifts—sometimes subtly, sometimes not at all. Silence allows that shift to register. It gives the nervous system time to organize, to decide whether it feels safe enough to soften or whether it needs more space.
Without silence, there is no room to notice:
a breath that finally drops
a muscle that stops bracing
an emotion that surfaces quietly instead of erupting
a moment where nothing happens, and that is the point
Silence lets the body answer in its own language.
Silence prevents intrusion
One of the most important lessons in trauma-informed practice is learning when not to intervene.
Sound can be supportive.
Movement can be supportive.
And both can become intrusive when they override what is already unfolding.
Silence acts as a safeguard. It prevents me from imposing rhythm, intention, or meaning where none is being asked for. It keeps my work relational rather than directive.
Silence says:
I am paying attention. I am not rushing you. I am not trying to fix you.
Silence requires trust
It is easier to keep doing something than to stop.
Silence asks the practitioner to trust:
the body’s intelligence
the process without constant input
the space without controlling it
It also asks clients and participants to trust themselves—not to perform, respond, or “get it right,” but simply to notice.
This kind of trust cannot be rushed. Silence makes that visible.
Silence is not withdrawal
Silence does not mean disengagement.
It does not mean checking out.
It does not mean withholding care.
In my practice, silence is active. It is attentive. It is listening with the whole body.
I am still present
I am still tracking.
I am still holding the container.
Silence simply shifts the center of attention away from me and back to the body that is experiencing.
Silence honors consent
Consent is not only about asking before we begin. It is about continually checking whether something is still welcome.
Silence creates space for consent to be felt rather than verbalized. It allows the body to indicate yes, no, not yet, or enough without being pressured to keep going.
Sometimes silence is the clearest “yes".
Sometimes it is a clear “stop.”
Sometimes it is uncertainty—and that uncertainty deserves respect.
Why silence stays in my work
I do not use silence as a technique.
I do not schedule it for effect.
Silence stays in my practice because it keeps me honest.
It reminds me that my role is not to lead bodies somewhere, but to accompany them where they are. It keeps sound and movement from becoming performances or prescriptions. It returns authority to the person experiencing their own body.
Sound matters.
Movement matters.
And silence matters just as much.
Because healing does not always announce itself.
Sometimes it arrives quietly—and silence is how we hear it.
Comments