Women need space and silence. We too quickly give away our

Hear the words of Natalie Goldberg, poet of the pen and seeker of wisdom, who declared: “Women need space and silence. We too quickly give away our energy. There's something about holding that richness.” These words rise like a gentle river yet cut deep as a sword, reminding us of the sacred necessity of rest, of boundaries, of keeping one’s own inner flame alive. For too often, women have been taught to pour themselves endlessly into the lives of others, until their strength runs dry and their voices grow faint. Goldberg speaks here of reclaiming the well of the soul, of guarding the richness that lies within.

The origin of this wisdom comes from the long history of women’s burdens. In households, in families, in societies, women have been the givers: of care, of comfort, of service, of labor unseen and unpraised. Yet this giving, unchecked, becomes depletion. Without space to breathe, without silence to hear their own hearts, women risk losing the fullness of their being. Goldberg, as a writer and teacher of writing, knew that creation springs from silence and reflection. She saw that only in stillness can one hold onto the richness needed to create, to nurture, to live deeply.

Consider the story of Virginia Woolf, who proclaimed that a woman needs a “room of her own” if she is to write. She knew that space was not mere luxury, but necessity—without it, the mind is consumed by the demands of others, leaving no soil for imagination. Woolf’s life itself bore the mark of struggle between the call of society and the cry of her own voice. Her declaration mirrors Goldberg’s: space and silence are not selfishness, but the ground of creation, the temple where richness is guarded.

Even history shows this truth in unexpected ways. In the traditions of many ancient cultures, women would withdraw during certain cycles of life—into red tents, into sacred spaces set apart. This was not exile but renewal, a recognition that the body and spirit must rest, must dwell in quietness to gather strength. Such practices remind us that silence is not emptiness, but fullness—an opportunity to hold the sacred energy rather than spilling it heedlessly into the world.

Goldberg’s words also speak to the deeper nature of energy itself. When one gives away too quickly—whether through labor, through attention, through endless service—there is little left for the growth of the inner life. But when one learns to hold that richness, even briefly, something powerful awakens: clarity, creativity, vision. Like soil left fallow in winter, the heart regains its strength in silence, ready to bring forth new harvests. To deny oneself this is to strip life of its depth.

The lesson is clear: guard your space. Protect your silence. Do not think it selfish to withdraw; think it sacred. In a world that demands constant giving, constant motion, the act of stillness is an act of defiance and of survival. Learn to say no when needed, to rest when weary, to listen when silence calls. For only by holding your richness can you continue to give without breaking, to nurture without withering, to create without collapse.

Therefore, O listener, take this wisdom into your life: seek your silence, build your space, hold your richness. Do not scatter your energy upon every demand, but spend it with care, like gold. For your soul is not an endless well to be drained, but a living river that must be replenished. And remember Goldberg’s words: there is something sacred in holding, something life-giving in silence, something powerful in the space you claim for yourself. Guard it well, and you will live not as one depleted, but as one overflowing with richness that endures.