Sometimes the Most Important Things We Need to Hear Can Only Be Heard in Silence

I live on the frontier of Wyoming, where the population barely tips over 500,000 and the land stretches endlessly. Out here, silence isn’t something you carve out—it’s simply part of life.

“Before I open my mouth, I consider—will what I say improve the silence?” – Drew Duncan, priest, Blessed Sacrament, Ft. Washakie, WY

On a favorite epic training hike in my backyard.

I am a lover of solitude. The wilderness is where I feel most at home. Walking—especially hiking—is my deepest passion. Over the last 15 years, I’ve logged roughly 35,000 miles on foot. Not all of them were on trails; probably half unfolded in the course of daily life—on coaching calls, around my hometown, and during my travels.

But thousands upon thousands of those miles have been hiked—and more than half of them I’ve walked alone. Not because I couldn’t find anyone to hike with, but because I’ve come to crave solitude, especially when immersed in the raw, breathtaking beauty of the natural world.

But solitude isn’t only about being alone—it’s about learning to listen.

I live on the frontier of Wyoming, where the population barely tips over 500,000 and the land stretches endlessly in every direction. Out here, silence isn’t something you carve out—it’s simply part of life.

Years ago, I traveled to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to deliver my Epic Lessons Learned in the Field keynote at a Girls in Tech event. Afterward, a woman raised her hand and asked if living in such a remote place—with so much wide-open space—had shaped the way I think and live. I appreciated the question. The answer was—and still is—a resounding yes.

I’ve grown to crave silence. I love spending entire days walking alone in the wilderness. There’s something about the absence of talking that creates space.

Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Zen master, poet, peace activist, and renowned mindfulness teacher, once said: “Insights don’t happen in the thinking mind.”

Perhaps that’s why I so often have profound insights—sudden realizations or deeper understandings—during long walks in the mountains.

Some time ago, I was listening to Krista Tippett’s On Being podcast. She was interviewing acoustic ecologist and “sound tracker” Gordon Hempton. Hempton studies the Earth’s natural soundscapes—especially the rare and vanishing experience of true silence, or more precisely, the absence of human-made noise.

He has spent decades traveling the globe, capturing pristine sounds with ultra-sensitive recording equipment. He’s become a fierce advocate for protecting quiet places—not just for the sake of nature, but for our own well-being, creativity, and clarity.

Hempton has said, “Silence is not the absence of something, but the presence of everything.”
He believes silence is an endangered species—and that if we lose it, we lose something vital in ourselves, too.

I couldn’t agree more. In my own experience, silence isn’t empty—it’s where our deepest knowing begins to surface.

I believe in the power of solitude and silence—and in their ability to spark profound self-discovery. That’s why I weave both into the work I do with my coaching, leadership, and Epic Adventure clients.

Often, I begin by inviting (or gently challenging) someone to sit outside—for 60 minutes. No phone. No earbuds. No music or podcasts. No one else. Just you, in the quiet, in a place with a little nature. Your backyard will do.

It sounds simple. But if you’re not used to it, it’s surprisingly hard. And then I’ll invite you to stretch a little farther. Try two hours. Then four.

Silent time activates the brain’s default mode network—the system responsible for self-reflection, creativity, memory, and moral reasoning. Research shows silence reduces stress, supports emotional regulation, and even stimulates growth in the hippocampus—the part of the brain linked to learning and memory.

Silence isn’t empty or passive. It’s generative.

It’s where we begin to truly hear—not just the world, but ourselves.