We all need silence, yet what silence is varies across needs and contexts.

We tend to idealize how we will feel in quiet places. It's important to mind our expectations.

Retreating into remote locations can promote well-being, but only if we prepare for the challenges.

The fjord's crystalline water jiggles in the gentle breeze of these small hours, when I commit to writing. The glittery dew on the grass and the autumn leaves of the pear tree dance on my eyelids as I look tenderly through our cabin’s window. The birdsong does not interrupt, but if something does, it deepens my quiet.

What is the quietest place you have ever been to? What did that place look like? How did it feel to be there? Was it a solo experience, or, if not, who kept you company? Most importantly, how would you describe that sense of quiet?

There was certainly an outer and an inner soundscape, coexisting with the silent space you visited. For some, the experience might have felt idyllic. For others, such quietness, which we tend to idealize, wasn’t even pleasant, especially if that “silence” redirected your attention to the inner turmoil of your mind spinning around, despite the stillness of the surroundings.

In our pilot study, Professor Brady Wagoner and I have explored various forms of silence as socially constructed experiences, rather than merely sensorial[1]. Our findings suggest that our needs in specific contexts, as much as geographical spaces, shape what we describe as quiet, and how we feel when we're there.

The human search for silence has been exponentialized in the media. National Geographic[2] describes it as a luxury, and a recent report by BookRetreats[3] suggests that faraway islands' coordinates lead us to associate quiet with remoteness.

The Need for Silence Is Real

In popular culture, silence is often defined as what we experience in opposition to noise. By this definition, it is no wonder so many people living in cities exposed to........

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