Dr Nicole Dickson
These days, the world feels loud. War, conflict, human rights violations, polarised politics—every headline shouts for attention, every issue demands a stance. The pressure to choose a side—clearly, vocally, decisively—can feel overwhelming. But what happens when I can’t? Or don’t? What does it mean when silence doesn’t come from indifference, but from exhaustion, confusion, or sorrow?
I find myself asking: Am I hiding? Avoiding? Or is something deeper at play?
We live in an era that craves clarity. Quick takes. Strong opinions. Clear enemies. Clear heroes. The need to choose sides feels urgent—almost moral. If you’re silent, they say, you’re complicit. If you don’t pick a side, you’re part of the problem. But what if the truth isn’t always as binary as we’d like it to be? What if not choosing a side isn’t about moral failure, but about feeling the moral weight of it all too deeply? I find myself caught in the tangle of nuance. I see the pain on every side, and it undoes me. I hear the stories—of suffering, displacement, rage, loss—and I can’t carry them all. My heart isn’t built for this volume of grief, this much polarisation, this constant demand for certainty. So I go quiet. I scroll past. I lower my head—not into sand, but maybe into stillness.
I’m learning to ask: is my silence cowardice, or is it something softer? Could it be the ache of someone who no longer believes that shouting louder brings healing? Could it be the quiet of someone trying to find a better way—a more human way—to hold tension? To be honest, I want to respond. I want to live justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. I want to act, to speak, to engage. But I also want to listen. To discern. To avoid adding to the noise that divides rather than the grace that reconciles.
This posture of hesitation may be its own kind of prayer. A lowering of the head to the ground—not to escape, but to feel the tremors of what’s unfolding. To stay grounded when everything feels unstable. To breathe. To grieve. To ask better questions. Not choosing a side doesn’t mean I’m indifferent. It may mean I’ve come to realise that life isn’t always lived in extremes. That people are more than their positions. That healing doesn’t always come from taking a stand, but sometimes from taking a seat at the table of tension, discomfort, and complexity.
Parker Palmer writes, “Violence is what happens when we don’t know what else to do with our suffering.” In a world so full of suffering and so short on tenderness, perhaps turning inward is not an escape, but a necessary first step toward healing. Toward doing something different with the pain. Toward a deeper response that begins in stillness.
So no, I don’t think I’m an ostrich. I think I’m a person trying to stay human in an inhumane world. Trying to hold compassion where the world demands allegiance.
Trying to listen for the Spirit’s whisper amid the shouting.
Not to hide. But to remember.
To pray.
To be still enough to feel what matters, and to act when love—not pressure—calls me forward.
