It took the stillness of a forest for Joan Mwende, a single mother of one, to understand silence and what children are quietly losing at home.
After days of noise, notifications, deadlines and the constant tug of responsibility, Ngong Forest offered something rare: a quiet that did not demand performance.
“My steps slowed, my shoulders dropped, and even my thoughts learned to whisper. It felt unfamiliar at first, almost unsettling, then deeply regulating,” said Mwende, the mother of a 15-year-old girl.
A question lingered. Had she raised a child who only knew how to be entertained, but not how to be alone with herself?
Later that evening, back at home, Mwende watched her daughter instinctively reach for a screen the moment stillness entered the room. No transition, no pause, no sitting with self—just reflex.
Lisa Wanjiro, a family coach and counsellor, says many parents share this worry, even if few name it this way. They often make familiar statements such as: “My child cannot sleep without YouTube,” “She panics when there’s nothing to do,” or “He says silence makes his head noisy.”
“Children are rarely alone—not physically, not mentally, not emotionally,” Wanjiro says. “Every gap is filled with screens, tutors, activities, background television, music streaming, constant supervision and constant stimulation.”
She explains that many homes now treat boredom like an emergency, yet boredom, silence and unstructured time were once the quiet engineers of childhood. These conditions helped build imagination, emotional regulation, self-soothing, inner security, focus and creativity.
Today, she says, many children grow anxious in the very spaces where these strengths used to form.
Victor Konsolo, a primary school teacher in Meru, says he sees the effects daily in his classroom.
“Children cannot sit still for five minutes without asking for stimulation. Even during quiet reading time, some begin fidgeting, rocking or whispering. Silence unsettles them,” he said.
The issue, Konsolo explains, is not disobedience but nervous system dependence. Children’s bodies have learned to expect constant input. When it disappears, discomfort floods in, and when discomfort is unfamiliar, it quickly turns into fear.
Child psychologist Martin Mburugu says screens have become the fastest emotional regulator in many homes. When a child throws a tantrum, they are handed a phone. When they are tired, the television is switched on to their favourite cartoon.
“In the moment, it feels like relief, and often parents are simply exhausted,” he says. “But over time, a dangerous pattern develops: the child’s nervous system forgets how to regulate itself without external stimulation.”
A child who never learns to settle themselves, he explains, grows into a teenager who escapes into endless scrolling and later into an adult uncomfortable with solitude—one who fears quiet because quiet exposes the self.
“This is not a moral failure,” Mburugu adds. “It is a developmental gap.”
Family coach Catherine Mugendi encourages parents to explain to children why moments of silence are important for growth.
“Being alone is not loneliness,” she says. “Being alone is a skill, while loneliness is a wound.”
When a child learns, gently, to sit with their thoughts, sensations and emotions, Mugendi says they develop emotional literacy, inner dialogue, self-trust, boundaries and the ability to pause instead of react.
Children mentored this way, she adds, grow into adults who do not panic in quiet, do not depend on constant validation, and can sit with hard feelings without collapsing. Silence does not empty them—it stabilises them.
James Njuguna, a father of a 10-year-old son and a seven-year-old daughter, says he struggled before seeking professional help.
His children refused to sleep in silence unless YouTube played softly throughout the night.
“One evening I tried to switch it off, and both began to cry and throw tantrums,” he said. “My daughter said silence scared her, while her brother said silence made his head noisy.”
Wanjiro explains that without constant external sound, the children’s inner worlds overwhelm them. They have not yet learned how to organise, calm or sit with those inner experiences.
“This is not because they are broken,” she says. “It is because no one has yet taught them how.”
She contrasts this with older generations who grew up with long walks home, quiet afternoons, cloud-watching, time on verandas and unscheduled hours in fields. Boredom was common, but it built something powerful—inner scaffolding that taught children how to be in their own presence.
In a world already overwhelmed by speed, pressure and comparison, the ability to be inwardly quiet is no longer just a wellness skill. It is a survival one.
For Mwende, the forest encounter brought the lesson home. Children need the same remembering—not through lectures or discipline, but through repeated, gentle exposure to silence that feels safe.
“The goal is not a silent child,” Mburugu says, “but a child who is not afraid of silence. Parents must ask themselves whether they have given their child enough space to meet themselves.”
Because one day, when the noise falls away, when peers drift, devices fail and adulthood stretches wide, the one companion a person must always live with is their own self.