It was the year 2022, and my father had just passed away due to an uncommon blood illness. In the wake of this, I abandoned my PhD and returned to London from Brighton. I managed my grief by staying extremely active. I frequently told friends “I’m fine, actually,” as I immersed myself in a new role in communications, went out clubbing every weekend, started a side gig selling used clothing, and became oddly invested in my fitness routine. If I could just keep occupied, I thought, maybe I could silence the impending wave of sorrow.
And it worked, until it didn’t anymore. I started bursting into tears unexpectedly – during work meetings, at the gym, on my way to work – and everyone around me would courteously act as though they were unaware of the 28-year-old man crying on the tube at 8:30 am. I attempted to push through, but my ability to manage my life was deteriorating, and everything – the clubs, the job, the gym – suddenly felt deafening and overwhelming.
In the midst of the chaos, I began taking walks during my lunch breaks to decompress. It was while I was wandering down Euston Road in London that I came across Friends House, the main meeting house of British Quakers. I hardly knew anything about Quakers, and I had a skepticism toward religion after moving away from the Anglican background I grew up in, but I started visiting the garden regularly to relax. One day, I noticed the words “truth”, “simplicity”, “equality”, and “peace” carved into the walkway. I became intrigued about who the Quakers were and what their beliefs were.
After several weeks of sitting in the garden, I nervously decided to enter the meeting house where I discovered a bustling café and, adjacent to it, a shop filled with books on social justice, pacifism, and spirituality. I discreetly picked up a copy of Advices and Queries, a small booklet that serves as a kind of mini-guide for practicing Quakers.
I found out that Quakers gather to worship in silence, sitting in a circle until someone is moved to speak, and that although Quakerism is rooted in Christianity, many Quakers identify as secular.
The booklet also mentioned that Quakers should “Seek to know an inward stillness, even amid the activities of daily life.” Deep down, I felt a profound desire. I had been so occupied with trying to halt the outpouring of grief that I wasn’t sure if I had experienced any inner stillness at all since my father had passed away.
I attended my first meeting that Sunday. I slipped into Friends House and, after being warmly welcomed by a friendly Quaker representative, took a seat at the back of the meeting space. Gradually, people trickled in until there were around 30 of us, and once everyone was settled, silence enveloped the room.
I quickly realized that I was about to spend an hour alone with my thoughts after months of avoiding them, and I almost rushed out in alarm. Yet, I took a moment to observe what the seasoned Quakers were doing. Some individuals were sitting with their eyes shut, so I mirrored them and closed my eyes, allowing myself to sink into the silence.
It felt as though someone had turned down the world’s volume, leaving only my emotions, raw and exposed like an open wound. Instead of fleeing, I stayed seated for an hour and allowed those feelings to wash over me. I left with a renewed perspective and spent the remainder of the day in a tranquil haze. For the first time in a long while, I felt connected to something greater than myself.
I started to regularly attend Quaker meetings, occasionally at various meeting houses throughout London. Each time I attended, I rediscovered the silence and allowed myself to immerse in it a little more. I learned about Quaker tenets of pacifism, equality, and environmental stewardship, and encountered Quakers from diverse backgrounds. Some had taken notable political action driven by their beliefs, participating in anti-apartheid demonstrations and advocating for marriage equality. Most were believers in God, while others identified as agnostic, and although the majority were older than I, I never felt out of place or condescended to.
Eventually, I found myself developing faith too. I began to seek the Holy Spirit in my daily life and started to reflect on why I had been so focused on busyness. Slowly, I began confronting the emotions I had been evading.
I noticed that the overwhelming tide of grief began to subside into waves and, eventually, gentle ripples. Participating in Quaker meetings hasn’t made me flawless, but I believe I am now more compassionate and patient. I attempt to slow down and rush less – and I take significantly better care of myself. I hardly break into tears on the tube anymore.
I have also gained a newfound appreciation for tranquil moments. I’m more conscious of the clarity that stillness can provide, and I am thankful that I discovered the Quakers when I needed them the most. I sometimes say that I possess a quiet faith – not out of timidity, but because it was found in silence.
