What I’ve learned about subtle shifts, quiet endings, and the storms we don’t see coming.
I used to think change would be obvious.
Loud.
Dramatic.
Something you could mark on a calendar or point to in a story like: there, that’s when everything changed.
But more often, change is quieter than that.
It happens in the pauses. In the small decisions. In the unnoticed drift.
It looks like checking your phone less.
Sleeping on the other side of the bed.
Saying no without offering an apology as a consolation prize.
It feels like stillness—but if you’re paying attention, it’s movement.
When I wrote The Quiet Between Lightning, I was living through one of those seasons where everything felt on the edge of something. There was a sense of gathering tension, but no storm—just static. No dramatic exit, just a slow, irreversible unraveling.
“Some storms never arrive, but we live like they’re coming anyway.”
That line was written on a day I couldn’t tell if I was anxious… or just awake.
Sometimes, the most life-altering changes don’t come with announcements.
They don’t break you open. They settle in.
You don’t realize something’s shifted until weeks later, when you notice you no longer react the same way. Or want the same things. Or ache in the same places.
We love stories that revolve around explosions—big turning points, climaxes, plot twists. But real life is usually quieter. And real transformation almost always happens in silence.
If you’re waiting for thunder to tell you it’s time to go, to stay, to begin again—maybe this is your sign:
The shift already started.
You’re already in it.
And just because it wasn’t loud doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.
