Julia Hornung

On an evening that felt like the illicit shock of an ice bath, I am not surprised you’re unable to identify a direct emotion in response to that hypothetical situation. I can already imagine the look on your face, your thoughts forming: That statement is odd.

But don’t feel so seen just yet. This piece isn’t about you.

The night was dark and absent of movement or life. The surrounding space constricted the narrow walkway leading to the crevice of feminine consciousness. The trees stood idle, untouched by wind, time, or sound. Nothing shifted. Nothing responded.

Despite the silence, the absence of life, and the melancholic stillness, the consciousness of an experienced woman did not mirror the fear most people would feel. Instead, it felt peaceful—to witness the absence of life, color, and expression.

Why should it matter if expression had always been distorted, misused, or mishandled?

The silence—the absence of life, conformity, and creativity—felt like relief.

As she stared into what seemed like endless darkness, she sat upright and began walking forward as if moving through a virtual reality. The excitement of change sparked an internal dialogue. Much of her life had been spent alone. In response, she subconsciously created alters that inhabited her mind—voices of reflection rather than fracture.

She thought to herself: Well, this is interesting. I am by myself. I am here. I am living. Maybe not in circumstances others would choose—but who cares? Why does it matter? It’s better than the reality that once made me sick to my stomach.

The realities she rejected were ones she could not reconcile—babies on leashes with cotton-stuffed monkeys strapped to their backs, dogs pushed in strollers, animals used to maximize business profit. To her, these were symbols of distortion, not care.

Though fear is commonly described as something that provokes discomfort, she had become acquainted with a different kind of peace—one others might not recognize.

If a person cannot relate to what others find acceptable—if she stands outside common opinions and perpetually reinforced perceptions—how could she define peace the same way her community does?

In solitude, she found more advancement in absence than in the life she had lived. Solitude is often described as being alone, self-reliant, not grazing where the herd gathers. Some rebuild themselves there. Some become stronger. Some cultivate the qualities they once needed after trauma. One might even argue that solitude is transformation.

But how do you transform something that feels already broken? How do you rebuild when everything has been stripped away?

The answer seems implicit: you cannot.

Unless, of course, you believe some metaphysical force will override matter itself and produce something from nothing. But the likelihood of that feels close to none. To imagine it might invite accusations of delusion.

Be careful with your desires—especially when you suspect they will never materialize.

Without much surprise, the perspective of this piece belongs to the author. I have never identified myself as the same as everyone else, so why would I find peace in what others call peaceful?

What is typical peace, anyway? Waves crashing against the shore while seagulls call overhead? Holding your favorite drink while surrounded by loved ones?

I cannot imagine what that feels like. Perhaps I once tried to envision it—but why does it matter?

It feels like searching for something others create naturally for themselves. I have tried to wrestle my circumstances into something resembling peace. But it never quite forms. There is always a fight for it—one that feels unwinnable.

Peace does not easily emerge in a place where it cannot be modeled.

Yet despite the inability to manufacture peace in conventional ways—despite resistance to conformity, despite a relentless desire for justice others may not prioritize—there is still a form of peace.

Peace in distinction.

Peace in justice.

Peace in solitude.