When the World Falls Silent

Every morning, at around eight o’clock, I take Monty – our small, spirited Shih Tzu – for his walk. It’s a routine so ordinary on the surface, yet quietly extraordinary to me. Most people start their day to the soundtrack of the world: cars rumbling by, birds calling overhead, neighbours exchanging words across the street. For me, those sounds are a choice.

I wear two hearing aids most of the time, a lifeline to the conversations, laughter, and general noise of everyday life. But on these walks, I leave them on the bedside table. Without them, the world is stripped of its usual soundtrack. What’s left is a kind of soft, enveloping quiet – a quiet that most people will never experience in quite the same way.

It isn’t silence exactly. There’s still the crunch of gravel beneath my boots, the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a breeze, the rhythmic padding of Monty’s paws. But it’s a muted, distant version of reality. In that stillness, there’s space to think… or not to think at all.

This daily walk is more than just exercise for Monty; it’s a kind of moving meditation for me. In a world so relentlessly full of sound, stepping away from it – even for half an hour – feels like reclaiming a small but precious freedom. It’s not about shutting out the world forever, but about starting the day on my own terms, with a sense of calm that stays with me long after we’ve returned home.

Monty doesn’t notice the difference. He trots ahead with the same enthusiasm, sniffing the air, tail wagging, ears perked. For him, it’s an adventure. For me, it’s peace. And in that shared morning ritual, we both get exactly what we need.

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