Voices
from Silence
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Personal stories of engaging in silence by practitioners from the Global Majority Heritage (GMH) or Black and Indigenous Peoples of Colour (BIPOC) communities.* |
A quarter of the way into the new millennium the reality for many people from this community is that their lives and stories are sidelined. Their voices are silenced.
Although many people from GMH/ BIPOC communities have a spiritual practice of silence, authors from these communities have tended to write more about their experiences of silencing than of their engagement with silence-based prayer.
This new series is a way to bring some voices from the GMH/ BIPOC communities into the conversations and resources about silence on the Seeds of Silence website.
Although many people from GMH/ BIPOC communities have a spiritual practice of silence, authors from these communities have tended to write more about their experiences of silencing than of their engagement with silence-based prayer.
This new series is a way to bring some voices from the GMH/ BIPOC communities into the conversations and resources about silence on the Seeds of Silence website.
April, 2026: Rev. Nhien Vuong:
'Love That Persists: Discovering That Love Was Never Absent'
Image: Nhien Vuong's compilation from Canva Pro and TrueCreatives sources
Rev. Nhien Vuong, Kansas City, Missouri, USA
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Listen to Nhien reading 'Love That Persists: Discovering That Love Was Never Absent'
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Love That Persists: Discovering That Love Was Never Absent
Perhaps it was because I was born amid war—the Vietnam War, as we call it in the States. In Vietnam, it was called the American War. Or perhaps it was because I grew up feeling like I didn’t belong: not among my Caucasian classmates in a Southern California surf town, and not fully within my own family, where my ideals and longing to 'save the world' felt larger than the life around me.
From an early age, I was searching. I didn’t have words for it then, but I was looking for something that felt like meaning, like truth, like home. I read voraciously, finding glimpses of it in philosophy and poetry. Later, I tried to quiet that longing in less helpful ways, until a breaking point in my early thirties led me into a 12-step program—and into meditation.
At first, silence was not very silent. If my mind wasn’t active—ruminating, striving, judging myself—then my heart began releasing all the feelings I had been holding for years. Anger and grief rose up, at times cascading into sobs. And yet, I persisted.
Over time, something began to shift. Beneath the noise, I began to sense something else—not emptiness, but a kind of fullness. A gentle quietude. A depth of presence I can only call Love.
Silence is a palpable love.
Not a love that announces itself with trumpets, but one felt in quiet steadiness. A love that does not rush in to fix what is uncomfortable, and does not withdraw when things remain unresolved. A love that simply abides.
There have been moments when I have found myself in silence not out of devotion, but because what I was facing felt beyond my capacity to resolve. In those moments, silence did not feel peaceful; my mind was shouting into it. And yet, as I remained, I began to notice something steady beneath it all—something that simply held what was there.
I have come to know, in a lived way, that it is not God who is absent. The Divine is ever-present—a quiet, tender presence within me. It is we who leave.
I once searched for Love in nearly everyone I knew. Truthfully, I was searching for Love’s proxies: approval, desire, admiration. Even as I searched, I now realize that Love has always been here, quietly waiting for me.
Especially in moments that feel like absence—when the Divine Presence can seem quiet—silence can seem empty. But I am learning to trust otherwise. What feels like absence is often an invitation to drop into an even deeper surrender—a surrender into presence.
Perhaps this is what silence reveals most clearly: that what feels like absence is not abandonment, but a love that remains—even here, even now.
And wherever I go, as I return to presence, I discover it is a love that was never absent.
From an early age, I was searching. I didn’t have words for it then, but I was looking for something that felt like meaning, like truth, like home. I read voraciously, finding glimpses of it in philosophy and poetry. Later, I tried to quiet that longing in less helpful ways, until a breaking point in my early thirties led me into a 12-step program—and into meditation.
At first, silence was not very silent. If my mind wasn’t active—ruminating, striving, judging myself—then my heart began releasing all the feelings I had been holding for years. Anger and grief rose up, at times cascading into sobs. And yet, I persisted.
Over time, something began to shift. Beneath the noise, I began to sense something else—not emptiness, but a kind of fullness. A gentle quietude. A depth of presence I can only call Love.
Silence is a palpable love.
Not a love that announces itself with trumpets, but one felt in quiet steadiness. A love that does not rush in to fix what is uncomfortable, and does not withdraw when things remain unresolved. A love that simply abides.
There have been moments when I have found myself in silence not out of devotion, but because what I was facing felt beyond my capacity to resolve. In those moments, silence did not feel peaceful; my mind was shouting into it. And yet, as I remained, I began to notice something steady beneath it all—something that simply held what was there.
I have come to know, in a lived way, that it is not God who is absent. The Divine is ever-present—a quiet, tender presence within me. It is we who leave.
I once searched for Love in nearly everyone I knew. Truthfully, I was searching for Love’s proxies: approval, desire, admiration. Even as I searched, I now realize that Love has always been here, quietly waiting for me.
Especially in moments that feel like absence—when the Divine Presence can seem quiet—silence can seem empty. But I am learning to trust otherwise. What feels like absence is often an invitation to drop into an even deeper surrender—a surrender into presence.
Perhaps this is what silence reveals most clearly: that what feels like absence is not abandonment, but a love that remains—even here, even now.
And wherever I go, as I return to presence, I discover it is a love that was never absent.
Rev. Nhien Vuong, April, 2026.
Rev. Nhien Vuong, JD, MDiv. is a former Stanford Law attorney and now an ordained Unity minister. She is an internationally renowned Enneagram teacher, spiritual mentor and author. To find out about her new book, The Enneagram of the Soul: A 40 Day Spiritual Companion for the Nine Types, click here. Nhien is founder of Evolving Enneagram—a contemplative Enneagram school devoted to the integration of committed spiritual practice and the transformative wisdom of the Enneagram. To find out more about the various online and in person programs offered by Evolving Enneagram, click here. The next online offering is a Contemplative Practice & the Enneagram group on shadow work from late April until July: click here.
* The terms 'Global Majority Heritage' (GMH) and 'Black and Indigenous Peoples of Colour' (BIPOC) refers to people whose backgrounds are from non-Western, non-White ethnic and cultural groups, reflecting the fact that the majority of the world’s population comes from Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East. These terms acknowledge the rich heritage of ancient Indigenous communities and challenge the traditional framing of racial and ethnic minorities by emphasizing that these populations are, in fact, the global majority.
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