We’ve all seen it happen.

Someone who’s usually plugged in—responsive, steady, present—suddenly goes quiet. No updates. No replies. Just…silence.

Years ago, when Ken was sick, that silence was my daily reality. I’d be at work trying to keep up, holding everything together with tape and willpower, and then there were days when I simply couldn’t. I’d disappear. Not because I didn’t care or wasn’t committed, but because life had pulled the rug out from under me.

I think about that a lot now, especially when I notice a colleague slipping off the grid. It’s easy to jump to conclusions in a workplace built around productivity. We assume someone’s checked out. Or slacking. Or not pulling their weight.

But what if they’re barely holding themselves upright?
What if they’re taking care of a partner, a parent, a child?
What if they’re drowning in something they haven’t found the words for yet?

Most of the heavy moments in life don’t announce themselves. They don’t send a calendar invite. They just land—hard—and we’re left trying to keep the pieces from scattering.

When a colleague goes quiet now, my first instinct isn’t judgment. It’s curiosity and compassion. I’ll send a simple note: Thinking of you. Let me know if you need anything.

Not to pry. Not to force a conversation. Just to remind them they’re not invisible, and they’re not alone.

I learned during those months with Ken that silence is often a signal flare. A quiet way of saying, “I’m overwhelmed,” even if the words never show up in the chat window. And sometimes, simply being seen—gently, without expectation—is the thing that keeps someone going.

We don’t always know what’s happening in someone’s world. But we can choose how we respond to their silence. And choosing compassion over assumption changes everything.

If this resonated, I share more reflections like this in my newsletter. You can sign up here.