When she was 20, my mother escorted a team of netballers from Surry Hills to Moree. She was blonde, tanned, and blue eyed – the daughter of a Dane. My father, the football coach, met the train. Three months later they were married; Mum says the phone calls were too expensive for a long engagement. I spent my young adult life expecting The One to step off some form of transport (I wasn’t fussy). Family stories are funny like that. They take on a truth beyond themselves.

My father had a gap between his front teeth that was filled with his grandmother’s gold. His smile was just like him – broad and kind and restful. Like me, he was the eldest of four and his grandmother’s favourite. Unlike me, he was tall and handsome and good at sport. He was known to most of us as Kel. Mum called him John.

When Kel died, I lost my balance. What I missed most was the quiet centering Yes of him. Yes, you are loved. Yes, you matter. Yes, absolutely – not maybe, or if you do this, that, or the other. Just Yes.

I came to understand that I needed to find balance in myself. Either that or be consumed by the debilitating dread of anxiety. I did some reading about meditation and mindfulness and listened to a podcast or two.

I began to sit first thing each morning, alone in quiet contemplation. For 20 minutes I’d listen to my breathing, feel into my feet, and let my busy thoughts bob by, like a cork over a wave. The change hasn’t been sudden but, over the years, it has made a difference. I’m reminded of watering the garden: I can be feeling tired, doubtful, or waving the hose about with abandon; still my roots get what they need to grow.

Sitting in silence isn’t particularly celebrated or valued in our culture. But the spaciousness that opens over time, the certainty of Yes at my core, is precious beyond words.