Anna the sophomore advisor here! Man, that feels weird and wonderful to say after waiting so long.

For the past week, I have been participating in training for my residence hall (shoutout to my staff family and the best hall on campus). It's in my job description to serve my community, to learn how to be a light and a leader to the people around me, the people I want to protect.

And as I have learned so far, there is so much more I need to know.

In the midst of training, our facilitators raised a point to us about the powers and skill set required in general conversation, whether it be light-hearted or of a more serious nature - they essentially taught us how to talk, and it was extraordinary. As we walked through scenarios of what a resident might ask of us or how they might approach us for the chance to talk, they raised a point that I had not yet learned to understand.

They explained to us the art of silence.

I wasn't sure exactly how to respond. All that honestly came to mind was silence itself, coupled by a welling curiosity of how silence in a conversation could be useful and not just seconds filling the space.

I had always considered silence an absence. A lack of something, a dead space between the words that compose a conversation, an emptiness with awkwardness in its vice grip. I had always looked at silence as a chance, as brief as I could make it, to collect my thoughts for the next phrase I would offer or response I would share. Too long a time without words flying back and forth seemed like nothing more than a nightmare; it felt like a sinkhole filled with anxiety about the conversation dying in my hands without hope for resuscitation. It went beyond dislike for me - I feared the silence that built, lying in wait, spelling sabotage. And here I was, seated in a space, listening to authorities on conversation tell me to use exactly that which I feared.

But I was taught.

Silence is not an absence. Silence is a conversation in and of itself. It is a chance for a person to not only gather their thoughts in preparation for the next line they'll deliver but also have their own personal space, especially in the midst of breaching a more difficult subject. We as humans live a lot of our lives in the silences of our every day, and we learn to cope with ourselves, but when we learn to cope with other people in that same, silent space, we open up our lives to them in a way that doesn't require us to say a word. That is why my best friends are not only the people with whom I can share hours of conversation but also the people with whom I can share hours of silence. I show them that my space is their space, that my time is their time, that they are a priority in my life in even the smallest of moments.

Silence is a tool because it acts as a gateway. As myself and the person I am talking with take a moment to breathe and gather our thoughts, we have a chance to get to the root of our own problems and more clearly share them with one another. I show the person that there is no need to rush. I show them that I want to hear from them, whoever they are and however they may be. I show them that I am here, I am listening, I don't need to talk. This is their place, their commonplace, personal silence, with the simple addition of one more person. Shared personal silence can be synonymous with peace, and sometimes that is everything a conversation needs. People want to feel heard. Silence takes the time to let them speak fully without them needing to say a thing.

Silence can be awkward. It can take some getting used to. It will take an adjustment for us to keep from blurting out everything in our heads to avoid silence. But silence can mean so much, not as something missing but as something tangible and genuine, something that cannot be forced, something that stays with them.

Live and love in your silences. Let your conversations be tangible from beginning to end and own the silence you face. This is how I can serve the people are me. This is how I can speak.