When Waiting Becomes Wisdom
There is a line attributed to Viktor Frankl that I try to keep close:
“Between stimulus and response, there is a space.”
For much of my life, I missed that space. I reacted quickly, convinced that speed meant strength.
I’ve learned, slowly and imperfectly, that it doesn’t.
Last week, someone I care about said something that landed sideways. Not cruel, just off. A passing comment that brushed against an old bruise: “You’ve always been a little sensitive about these things.”
My pulse jumped and my shoulders tightened as words rushed forward, ready to defend. At the same time, another part of me wanted to keep things steady.
I recognized the familiar pattern. For me, urgency arrives in the body before I’ve fully returned to myself. And I knew that if I spoke from that urgency, I’d be speaking from the wrong place.
So I waited.
But waiting wasn’t comfortable. It asked me to resist the urge to clarify myself or correct the moment, to trust that I didn’t need to secure my meaning immediately. It also required tolerating the small risk that silence might be misread as agreement, weakness, or withdrawal.
Waiting didn’t feel passive. It felt exposed: briefly without armor.
But it was also where choice returned.
In that space, I could feel the difference between an old reflex trying to protect me and a steadier voice asking how I wanted to meet the person in front of me. Waiting gave that voice time to arrive.
As I waited, a line from Sylvia Boorstein came to mind:
“Don’t just do something. Sit there.”
It always makes me smile because it feels like advice written for people like me. In that moment, it landed as a kindness. It reminded me that stillness can be a form of wisdom.
Most of us carry patterns that formed long before we had other options. For some, that meant staying alert. For others, smoothing things over quickly or disappearing when tension rose. These strategies were intelligent once, helping us survive what we couldn’t yet change.
But what once protected us can quietly begin to mislead us. This is how a reaction becomes an old moment trying to replay itself in a new one.
That’s why the pause matters. Not a long one. Just enough space to remember that we no longer live inside the conditions that shaped our earliest fears. We can choose a pace that keeps us connected to ourselves.
When we rush, fear tends to lead.
When we wait, something wiser often has room to emerge.
Waiting restores curiosity. It helps us separate what actually happened from what we worried might happen. It steadies our relationships not through control, but through clarity.
It also reveals something essential: not every discomfort is an emergency.
Many relationships are sturdier than our first reactions assume, and most misunderstandings can withstand a breath. Waiting reminds us that truth doesn’t require immediacy to be honest.
Waiting isn’t avoidance; it’s choosing to meet the moment that’s actually here.
In a culture that rewards speed and certainty, waiting is an act of courage. It says: I trust myself enough not to rush, and I trust this relationship enough to stay present without control.
That’s how waiting becomes wisdom.
A Practice for the Week
Notice when urgency rises in your body. The tightening. The heat. The push to speak quickly.
Take one slow breath.
Ask yourself: Which part of me is speaking right now?
If it’s an older part, thank it for its vigilance. Then let your present self respond.
A few seconds is enough.
Over time, this small practice becomes a quiet form of inner guidance. It reminds the body that it doesn’t need to rush and reassures the heart that clarity is allowed to arrive in its own time.
When we wait this way, we meet the world from a steadier place. And from that place, our relationships—and our lives—begin to shift.
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And that’s The Gist of It™: insights on relational courage — the courage to know and be known by others.
These practices help relationships breathe rather than tighten, deepen rather than fracture.
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Marilyn Gist, PhD