UnlearningSilence.blog

I have travelled with friends before. One friend at a time. A weekend away here, a city break there. But until this weekend, I had never been on a proper girls’ trip.

I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps life simply got in the way. Work, children, family responsibilities, relationships and the endless list of things that seem to occupy so much of adulthood.

Whatever the reason, it took me nearly four decades to pack a bag, leave my responsibilities behind for a few days and join a group of women for a weekend away in Dorset.

What surprised me most was not the destination itself. Dorset was beautiful, of course. The beaches, the walks, the sea air and the countryside were exactly what I needed. What surprised me was what the trip represented.

For me, true independence is not a house, a job title or a number in a bank account. It is being able to go away for a weekend with your friends without asking anyone’s permission. It is having the means to pay for your own ticket. It is knowing your children are looked after, your fridge is stocked, your work is under control and your responsibilities can survive without you for a few days.

That was the feeling I had while travelling to Dorset. Not freedom from responsibility, but freedom because I had fulfilled it.

The trip had begun long before we arrived. My friends had created a WhatsApp group weeks earlier and had been discussing accommodation, food, activities and logistics ever since.

I am not a huge fan of group chats and largely observed from the sidelines. Partly because I was busy finishing work, making arrangements at home and helping my eldest son through his exams. Life had also been emotionally demanding for quite some time and I did not always have the energy to engage immediately, even with people I cared about.

What struck me was how naturally my friends seemed to understand that.

Nobody appeared offended by my delayed replies. Nobody questioned whether I was still coming. Nobody assumed I was ignoring them or losing interest. The plans continued, the messages continued and I remained included, whether I responded immediately or not.

There was something incredibly comforting about that.

At a time when life already felt heavy, they did not add to the pressure. They did not require explanations. They did not make me feel guilty. They simply trusted that I would join in when I was ready.

And I did.

Not everybody responds to silence in the same way. Some people immediately assume the worst. Others understand that life is sometimes complicated, that people can care deeply and still need space, and that not every delayed message carries hidden meaning.

My friends understood that instinctively. They trusted that I would be there. They trusted that I cared. They trusted our friendship enough not to require constant reassurance. They never stopped including me. They simply left the door open and trusted that I would walk through it when I was ready.

Looking back, that quiet understanding may have been one of the greatest gifts of the entire trip.

One thing I have learnt through friendship is that people contribute in different ways. Some people are natural organisers. Some bring people together. Some remember the details everyone else forgets. Some know how to create an atmosphere where people feel comfortable, welcome and cared for.

This trip was a reminder of how valuable those people are.

I happily stepped back, trusted the process and arrived exactly where I was supposed to be.

Over the past year, these women have quietly stood beside me through one of the more difficult periods of my life. While I was caught up in my own thoughts and feelings, they did something that true friends do exceptionally well. They held up a mirror. Not by judging me or criticising me, and not by telling me what I should do. They simply reminded me who I was.

They listened. They challenged me when necessary. They supported me when I struggled. Most importantly, they never disappeared.

There was no grand intervention and no dramatic speeches. Just the steady presence of people who cared.

This weekend felt like more than a holiday. In some ways, it felt like a celebration. Not a celebration of a relationship ending, but a celebration of what comes afterwards. Over the past year, these women had stood beside me, listened patiently and gently reminded me who I was whenever I seemed to forget. Spending this weekend together felt like an acknowledgement of how far I had come and a reminder that life continues to expand when we allow it to.

This time my friends organised everything and I happily followed along. Next time, perhaps I will be the one making plans, booking accommodation and creating the group chat that everybody else ignores.

By the time I left London, I felt as though I had completed a military operation. The fridge was full. My boys were organised. My mother had everything she needed. Work was under control.

Now all I had to do was remember everything I was supposed to bring.

I failed almost immediately.

On the train, I watched two elegant older women comparing handheld fans. One looked at the other and said, “You look like Frida Kahlo.”

I smiled and instantly remembered that I had forgotten mine. It was a large colourful fan I had bought at Pride the previous summer. The train was hot. My friend was messaging me asking how far away I was. Three clients called before we had even left London.

I put my headphones on and one of my favourite summer songs started playing. I found myself imagining the beach, the sea, dancing with my friends and the weekend ahead.

Then I remembered I had forgotten my speaker.

Holidaying does not come naturally to me.

I am still learning.

There was another reason I almost did not go.

A few months ago, I ended a relationship that had become an important part of my life. It was the right decision, but that does not mean it was an easy one.

In the days before the trip, I found myself wondering whether I should stay at home instead. There was work to do. My boys needed me. There was always something practical that could justify not going.

The truth is that after a difficult period, our worlds can become smaller without us noticing. We follow familiar routines. We think familiar thoughts. We stay close to what we know. Sometimes the very changes we need are the ones we feel least inclined to make.

Part of me thought I simply was not in the mood for a girls’ weekend.

I am very glad I ignored that voice.

The weekend itself exceeded every expectation.

We talked until three o’clock in the morning. We laughed, cried, danced and shared stories about our lives, businesses, relationships and families.

One of my friends received news that her uncle had died. There were tears, hugs and quiet conversations. Nobody rushed to offer solutions or explanations. We simply sat with her grief and made space for it.

As the conversations unfolded, I was struck by how much strength sat around that table. Every woman there had faced challenges of one kind or another. Loss. Heartbreak. Cultural expectations. Family pressures. Career setbacks. Moments of uncertainty and self-doubt.

Yet every one of them had continued moving forward. Each had built something meaningful and each was still building.

What struck me most was the humility with which everyone spoke about their lives. From the outside, these are accomplished women. Intelligent, capable, independent and successful in their own ways. Yet beneath every achievement were the same insecurities, hopes, fears and unanswered questions that make us human.

Every person carries an entire world within them.

I do not have sisters. I do not have daughters. Somewhere along the way, my female friends became something else entirely.

They became my chosen sisters.

One of my favourite moments happened late in the evening when we discovered a speaker in the Airbnb. Music started playing and each of us took turns choosing songs from our own heritage. Different languages, different rhythms, different histories and different cultures filled the room. One by one we introduced each other to the music we grew up with, the songs that reminded us of home, family, childhood and celebrations.

Then we danced in our pyjamas.

We came from different backgrounds, had different personalities, different experiences and different political views. Yet none of it mattered. We cared about each other first. Everything else came second.

What I had not expected was how much perspective a change of scenery could bring. There is something powerful about stepping outside your everyday environment, hearing different stories, listening to different experiences and allowing yourself to be surprised.

A conversation can change the way you see a problem. A weekend can change the way you feel about a chapter of your life. A few days spent with good people can remind you of possibilities you had temporarily forgotten.

By the time I boarded the train back to London, something had shifted.

My work was still waiting for me. My responsibilities had not disappeared. Life was exactly as I had left it. Nothing had changed externally, and yet I found myself looking at things differently.

For months, much of my attention had been focused on a relationship that had come to an end and on the difficult decisions that had accompanied it. Somewhere between the beach walks, the late-night conversations, the dancing and the endless cups of tea, my perspective had quietly widened again.

As the train carried me back towards London, I found myself thinking less about what was behind me and more about everything that was already around me. The people who love me. The friendships I have built. The life I have created. The experiences that are still waiting for me.

The challenges that had existed before the trip were still there, but they no longer occupied the entire horizon. In their place was a renewed sense of possibility and a reminder that life rarely changes all at once. More often, it shifts gradually through conversations, experiences and people who help us see ourselves and the world a little differently.

By the end of the weekend, I felt closer to these women than I had before. Not because we had discovered how similar we are, but because we had discovered how different we are and cared about each other anyway.

For two nights and three days, a group of women, each carrying her own history, responsibilities, struggles and dreams, came together in the most natural way possible. We listened, laughed, cried, danced and supported one another.

Somewhere between the beach walks, the late-night conversations and the music, we became a little closer.

We are already planning our next trip.

This time, Greece.

And perhaps, if I am lucky, I will even remember to bring my speaker.