Raised By Silence, Sustained by Gratitude
November 2025
Raised By Silence, Sustained by Gratitude
November 2025
Raised By Silence, Sustained by Gratitude
November 2025
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
Raised by Silence, Sustained by Gratitude
(A November Reflection on Healing Body, Spirit, and Heart)
November always invites me to slow down. The air cools, leaves turn to amber and gold, and the world seems to whisper, be still. Gratitude Month, as many in recovery call it, has become a sacred checkpoint in my year — a time not only to count blessings but to feel them in my body, my breath, and my bones.
For much of my life, gratitude was something I spoke about but rarely felt. I was raised in a home where silence was both armor and prison. Words like “thank you,” “I love you,” or “I’m proud of you” floated in the air like languages no one taught us how to speak. My mother’s silence could freeze a room; my father’s absence echoed through every space. That quiet shaped me — but so did the long road of learning how to fill it with something new: gratitude, recovery, and grace.
Listening to the Body: The Physical Practice of Gratitude
When I entered recovery, I learned that my body was not the enemy. For years, it had been the battleground — numbed by alcohol, neglected by shame, burdened by stress, and silenced by fear. Silence teaches us to disconnect, to ignore the signals that something is wrong. But gratitude teaches us to listen.
Now, I listen when my body whispers that it’s tired, when it needs rest, water, or nourishment. I give thanks for every abstinent meal that nourishes without punishment. My food plan is no longer a set of restrictions — it’s a daily love letter to my body: “I care about you enough to feed you with dignity.”
Walking, stretching, and breathing deeply have become my small rituals of thanksgiving. Each step I take reminds me that I am still here — that healing is possible, one mindful breath at a time. Gratitude anchors me in the present moment, where my body no longer carries the full weight of the past.
Sometimes, when I prepare a meal or pour a cup of tea, I whisper, “Thank you” to the God who carried me through years when I could not care for myself. Gratitude has taught me that caring for the body is a spiritual act — one that transforms self-neglect into reverence.
The Spiritual Pulse: Gratitude as Prayer
There was a time when prayer felt like shouting into the wind. I had grown up in a world where silence was safety, where secrets were survival. For years, I mistook God’s quiet for abandonment. But recovery — and gratitude — helped me understand that silence can also be sacred.
Today, gratitude is my prayer language. It requires no fancy words or special conditions. It flows from my morning ritual — the quiet hour when I open my hands and say, “Thank you for another day to begin again.” It flows through my service as a chaplain and bereavement counselor, where I witness others’ courage to face loss with grace. Gratitude humbles me and teaches me that even in grief, there can be a kind of holy awe.
There are moments when I am sitting with a family in hospice, holding the sacred stillness of their sorrow, and I feel that same gentle whisper of gratitude: This is holy ground. I know that healing doesn’t always look like recovery or return. Sometimes it looks like presence — the willingness to stay, breathe, and bear witness.
Raised by silence, I once learned to fill every quiet moment with noise — food, drink, anger, or busyness. Now, I have learned to let silence speak. It often says, Peace. Enough. Be still.
Emotional Health: Breaking the Legacy of Silence
Gratitude has also been the bridge that carried me across generations of silence. For much of my life, I believed that if I didn’t talk about pain, it might disappear. But silence does not erase pain; it buries it alive. The work of recovery and therapy taught me that gratitude is not about denying suffering — it’s about recognizing the sacred truth that even suffering can teach.
When I write about my family — my mother’s sharp tongue, my father’s illness, my daughter’s loss — I do so not from bitterness, but from gratitude for the lessons each story carries. Gratitude does not glorify the pain, but it does allow me to redeem it. It helps me see that the silence that once wounded me also shaped my capacity for deep listening — a gift I now use in my work and ministry.
I often think about my daughter, Kim, and the grace we shared in her final days. There were years when silence stretched between us like an ocean. When we finally reconciled, gratitude filled the spaces where blame and regret once lived. I remember holding her hand and feeling that unspoken truth: love had survived our silence.
Gratitude healed what shame had hidden. It turned estrangement into forgiveness, absence into presence, and silence into song.
Living Gratefully: Integrating Body, Spirit, and Heart
To live gratefully is to live attentively — to notice what is already here. Gratitude asks me to look at my body and say, “You’ve carried me far.” It asks me to look at my spirit and say, “You’ve been faithful through the storms.” It asks me to look at my emotions — the grief, the anger, the longing — and say, “You belong too.”
Every November, I renew this practice. I make a gratitude list that goes beyond things — it’s about people, moments, and lessons. Some years my list is short: clean air, warm soup, a kind word from a friend. Other years, I add the more complex blessings: the daughter I lost, the silence I survived, the second chances I didn’t deserve but received anyway.
Gratitude, I’ve learned, is not a feeling we wait for. It’s a choice we make, sometimes through tears. It’s the bridge between what hurt and what healed.
A Daily Practice of Gratitude
Here’s what gratitude looks like in my life today:
- Morning: A brief prayer of thanks before my feet touch the floor.
- Midday: Pausing to notice my breath, a quiet reminder that I’m alive.
- Evening: A reflection — Where did I see God today? Sometimes it’s in a sponsee’s breakthrough, a hospice family’s courage, or a laugh shared with my son.
Gratitude has become my compass — guiding me back to serenity when fear or fatigue set in. It keeps me connected to the essence of recovery: progress, not perfection.
Closing Reflection
There’s a line I often return to: “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.”
I am grateful for the body that still rises each morning, for the spirit that still prays, and for the heart that still feels. I am grateful for silence — not the kind that wounded me as a child, but the sacred silence that now heals me as a woman.
As November unfolds, I invite others to join me in listening deeply — to the stillness, the whispers of memory, the pulse of gratitude that beats beneath all things. Because when we are raised by silence, learning to speak the language of gratitude is nothing short of a miracle.
Raised by Silence, Sustained by Gratitude
(A November Reflection on Healing Body, Spirit, and Heart)
November always invites me to slow down. The air cools, leaves turn to amber and gold, and the world seems to whisper, be still. Gratitude Month, as many in recovery call it, has become a sacred checkpoint in my year — a time not only to count blessings but to feel them in my body, my breath, and my bones.
For much of my life, gratitude was something I spoke about but rarely felt. I was raised in a home where silence was both armor and prison. Words like “thank you,” “I love you,” or “I’m proud of you” floated in the air like languages no one taught us how to speak. My mother’s silence could freeze a room; my father’s absence echoed through every space. That quiet shaped me — but so did the long road of learning how to fill it with something new: gratitude, recovery, and grace.
Listening to the Body: The Physical Practice of Gratitude
When I entered recovery, I learned that my body was not the enemy. For years, it had been the battleground — numbed by alcohol, neglected by shame, burdened by stress, and silenced by fear. Silence teaches us to disconnect, to ignore the signals that something is wrong. But gratitude teaches us to listen.
Now, I listen when my body whispers that it’s tired, when it needs rest, water, or nourishment. I give thanks for every abstinent meal that nourishes without punishment. My food plan is no longer a set of restrictions — it’s a daily love letter to my body: “I care about you enough to feed you with dignity.”
Walking, stretching, and breathing deeply have become my small rituals of thanksgiving. Each step I take reminds me that I am still here — that healing is possible, one mindful breath at a time. Gratitude anchors me in the present moment, where my body no longer carries the full weight of the past.
Sometimes, when I prepare a meal or pour a cup of tea, I whisper, “Thank you” to the God who carried me through years when I could not care for myself. Gratitude has taught me that caring for the body is a spiritual act — one that transforms self-neglect into reverence.
The Spiritual Pulse: Gratitude as Prayer
There was a time when prayer felt like shouting into the wind. I had grown up in a world where silence was safety, where secrets were survival. For years, I mistook God’s quiet for abandonment. But recovery — and gratitude — helped me understand that silence can also be sacred.
Today, gratitude is my prayer language. It requires no fancy words or special conditions. It flows from my morning ritual — the quiet hour when I open my hands and say, “Thank you for another day to begin again.” It flows through my service as a chaplain and bereavement counselor, where I witness others’ courage to face loss with grace. Gratitude humbles me and teaches me that even in grief, there can be a kind of holy awe.
There are moments when I am sitting with a family in hospice, holding the sacred stillness of their sorrow, and I feel that same gentle whisper of gratitude: This is holy ground. I know that healing doesn’t always look like recovery or return. Sometimes it looks like presence — the willingness to stay, breathe, and bear witness.
Raised by silence, I once learned to fill every quiet moment with noise — food, drink, anger, or busyness. Now, I have learned to let silence speak. It often says, Peace. Enough. Be still.
Emotional Health: Breaking the Legacy of Silence
Gratitude has also been the bridge that carried me across generations of silence. For much of my life, I believed that if I didn’t talk about pain, it might disappear. But silence does not erase pain; it buries it alive. The work of recovery and therapy taught me that gratitude is not about denying suffering — it’s about recognizing the sacred truth that even suffering can teach.
When I write about my family — my mother’s sharp tongue, my father’s illness, my daughter’s loss — I do so not from bitterness, but from gratitude for the lessons each story carries. Gratitude does not glorify the pain, but it does allow me to redeem it. It helps me see that the silence that once wounded me also shaped my capacity for deep listening — a gift I now use in my work and ministry.
I often think about my daughter, Kim, and the grace we shared in her final days. There were years when silence stretched between us like an ocean. When we finally reconciled, gratitude filled the spaces where blame and regret once lived. I remember holding her hand and feeling that unspoken truth: love had survived our silence.
Gratitude healed what shame had hidden. It turned estrangement into forgiveness, absence into presence, and silence into song.
Living Gratefully: Integrating Body, Spirit, and Heart
To live gratefully is to live attentively — to notice what is already here. Gratitude asks me to look at my body and say, “You’ve carried me far.” It asks me to look at my spirit and say, “You’ve been faithful through the storms.” It asks me to look at my emotions — the grief, the anger, the longing — and say, “You belong too.”
Every November, I renew this practice. I make a gratitude list that goes beyond things — it’s about people, moments, and lessons. Some years my list is short: clean air, warm soup, a kind word from a friend. Other years, I add the more complex blessings: the daughter I lost, the silence I survived, the second chances I didn’t deserve but received anyway.
Gratitude, I’ve learned, is not a feeling we wait for. It’s a choice we make, sometimes through tears. It’s the bridge between what hurt and what healed.
A Daily Practice of Gratitude
Here’s what gratitude looks like in my life today:
- Morning: A brief prayer of thanks before my feet touch the floor.
- Midday: Pausing to notice my breath, a quiet reminder that I’m alive.
- Evening: A reflection — Where did I see God today? Sometimes it’s in a sponsee’s breakthrough, a hospice family’s courage, or a laugh shared with my son.
Gratitude has become my compass — guiding me back to serenity when fear or fatigue set in. It keeps me connected to the essence of recovery: progress, not perfection.
Closing Reflection
There’s a line I often return to: “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.”
I am grateful for the body that still rises each morning, for the spirit that still prays, and for the heart that still feels. I am grateful for silence — not the kind that wounded me as a child, but the sacred silence that now heals me as a woman.
As November unfolds, I invite others to join me in listening deeply — to the stillness, the whispers of memory, the pulse of gratitude that beats beneath all things. Because when we are raised by silence, learning to speak the language of gratitude is nothing short of a miracle.
Raised by Silence, Sustained by Gratitude
(A November Reflection on Healing Body, Spirit, and Heart)
November always invites me to slow down. The air cools, leaves turn to amber and gold, and the world seems to whisper, be still. Gratitude Month, as many in recovery call it, has become a sacred checkpoint in my year — a time not only to count blessings but to feel them in my body, my breath, and my bones.
For much of my life, gratitude was something I spoke about but rarely felt. I was raised in a home where silence was both armor and prison. Words like “thank you,” “I love you,” or “I’m proud of you” floated in the air like languages no one taught us how to speak. My mother’s silence could freeze a room; my father’s absence echoed through every space. That quiet shaped me — but so did the long road of learning how to fill it with something new: gratitude, recovery, and grace.
Listening to the Body: The Physical Practice of Gratitude
When I entered recovery, I learned that my body was not the enemy. For years, it had been the battleground — numbed by alcohol, neglected by shame, burdened by stress, and silenced by fear. Silence teaches us to disconnect, to ignore the signals that something is wrong. But gratitude teaches us to listen.
Now, I listen when my body whispers that it’s tired, when it needs rest, water, or nourishment. I give thanks for every abstinent meal that nourishes without punishment. My food plan is no longer a set of restrictions — it’s a daily love letter to my body: “I care about you enough to feed you with dignity.”
Walking, stretching, and breathing deeply have become my small rituals of thanksgiving. Each step I take reminds me that I am still here — that healing is possible, one mindful breath at a time. Gratitude anchors me in the present moment, where my body no longer carries the full weight of the past.
Sometimes, when I prepare a meal or pour a cup of tea, I whisper, “Thank you” to the God who carried me through years when I could not care for myself. Gratitude has taught me that caring for the body is a spiritual act — one that transforms self-neglect into reverence.
The Spiritual Pulse: Gratitude as Prayer
There was a time when prayer felt like shouting into the wind. I had grown up in a world where silence was safety, where secrets were survival. For years, I mistook God’s quiet for abandonment. But recovery — and gratitude — helped me understand that silence can also be sacred.
Today, gratitude is my prayer language. It requires no fancy words or special conditions. It flows from my morning ritual — the quiet hour when I open my hands and say, “Thank you for another day to begin again.” It flows through my service as a chaplain and bereavement counselor, where I witness others’ courage to face loss with grace. Gratitude humbles me and teaches me that even in grief, there can be a kind of holy awe.
There are moments when I am sitting with a family in hospice, holding the sacred stillness of their sorrow, and I feel that same gentle whisper of gratitude: This is holy ground. I know that healing doesn’t always look like recovery or return. Sometimes it looks like presence — the willingness to stay, breathe, and bear witness.
Raised by silence, I once learned to fill every quiet moment with noise — food, drink, anger, or busyness. Now, I have learned to let silence speak. It often says, Peace. Enough. Be still.
Emotional Health: Breaking the Legacy of Silence
Gratitude has also been the bridge that carried me across generations of silence. For much of my life, I believed that if I didn’t talk about pain, it might disappear. But silence does not erase pain; it buries it alive. The work of recovery and therapy taught me that gratitude is not about denying suffering — it’s about recognizing the sacred truth that even suffering can teach.
When I write about my family — my mother’s sharp tongue, my father’s illness, my daughter’s loss — I do so not from bitterness, but from gratitude for the lessons each story carries. Gratitude does not glorify the pain, but it does allow me to redeem it. It helps me see that the silence that once wounded me also shaped my capacity for deep listening — a gift I now use in my work and ministry.
I often think about my daughter, Kim, and the grace we shared in her final days. There were years when silence stretched between us like an ocean. When we finally reconciled, gratitude filled the spaces where blame and regret once lived. I remember holding her hand and feeling that unspoken truth: love had survived our silence.
Gratitude healed what shame had hidden. It turned estrangement into forgiveness, absence into presence, and silence into song.
Living Gratefully: Integrating Body, Spirit, and Heart
To live gratefully is to live attentively — to notice what is already here. Gratitude asks me to look at my body and say, “You’ve carried me far.” It asks me to look at my spirit and say, “You’ve been faithful through the storms.” It asks me to look at my emotions — the grief, the anger, the longing — and say, “You belong too.”
Every November, I renew this practice. I make a gratitude list that goes beyond things — it’s about people, moments, and lessons. Some years my list is short: clean air, warm soup, a kind word from a friend. Other years, I add the more complex blessings: the daughter I lost, the silence I survived, the second chances I didn’t deserve but received anyway.
Gratitude, I’ve learned, is not a feeling we wait for. It’s a choice we make, sometimes through tears. It’s the bridge between what hurt and what healed.
A Daily Practice of Gratitude
Here’s what gratitude looks like in my life today:
- Morning: A brief prayer of thanks before my feet touch the floor.
- Midday: Pausing to notice my breath, a quiet reminder that I’m alive.
- Evening: A reflection — Where did I see God today? Sometimes it’s in a sponsee’s breakthrough, a hospice family’s courage, or a laugh shared with my son.
Gratitude has become my compass — guiding me back to serenity when fear or fatigue set in. It keeps me connected to the essence of recovery: progress, not perfection.
Closing Reflection
There’s a line I often return to: “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.”
I am grateful for the body that still rises each morning, for the spirit that still prays, and for the heart that still feels. I am grateful for silence — not the kind that wounded me as a child, but the sacred silence that now heals me as a woman.
As November unfolds, I invite others to join me in listening deeply — to the stillness, the whispers of memory, the pulse of gratitude that beats beneath all things. Because when we are raised by silence, learning to speak the language of gratitude is nothing short of a miracle.