The event was over. She had played a character flawlessly—poised, enigmatic, and elegant. As the crew celebrated their success, she sat watching them, contemplating. Maybe someone would call her for the group picture. Maybe someone would invite her to the meeting. Wasn't she part of them for months? In the chaos of celebration, she wasn't missed. She walked back alone, tears rolling down her cheeks.
She left. All by herself. All alone.
People fail to communicate—not because they lack words, but because they lack intention. Communication flows from what we feel for one another, from seeing each other as human rather than as functions in our daily machinery.
We know this intuitively: don't go by what a person says; observe them—you will get to know their intention. But how many of us truly observe? How many of us notice who sits alone at the edges of our celebrations?
Today we have friendships without presence, connections without weight. We accumulate people like contacts in a phone, but when we're actually needed, no one is near. We speak constantly but say nothing. We connect endlessly but remain alone.
There's a chakra in the throat called Vishuddha—bright blue, governing truth and self-expression. It's meant to bridge heart and mind, to give voice to what we feel. But when situations become difficult, we go silent. The conversation is dropped. The wound remains. Where does unspoken pain go? It doesn't dissolve. It calcifies into distance, into the small resentments that accumulate like sediment. It becomes the reason someone stops initiating, stops hoping, stops believing they matter. It's the slow death of relationships we once cherished—not through dramatic ending, but through a thousand small silences.
We who feel deeply want to speak. We initiate, we reach out, we ask the difficult questions. But those questions disrupt the smooth surface we've agreed to maintain. They demand we stop celebrating long enough to notice who isn't celebrating with us. So the ones who speak up learn to go quiet—not because they've healed, but because they've learned their voices are inconvenient.
She said, "Why should I be in a place where my absence is not felt?"
I couldn't answer her. I could only ask myself: Where was I? Where was I when she sat alone, hoping? Where was I when she walked away?
I was celebrating. I was part of the noise that drowned out her silence. I was too comfortable, too caught up in my own moment, to turn around and see who wasn't there.
Ancient wisdom tells us that true communication heals—that speaking our truth, hearing another's truth, builds the world we want to live in. But wisdom means nothing if we don't notice when someone walks away alone. It means nothing if we don't ask: Where were we? And what will we do differently when the celebration ends and we finally look around?
She walked back alone that night—not in chosen solitude, but broken, with tears rolling down her eyes. And somewhere in her throat, the bright blue light dimmed, waiting for someone to ask her to speak, waiting for someone to truly listen.
Can Vishuddha be healed? Can we learn to communicate with intention rather than convenience? I don't know. But I know the healing begins when we turn around. When we see the empty space, the void where someone stood. When we ask their name before they walk away.
Dear Vishuddha,
Your bright blue light calls to me
The throat that wants to speak
Hums softly in its solitude
Waiting for the brave, not the meek
Let there be intention in our noticing
Let there be courage in our care
Not just words of love, but love in action—
Seeing who is and isn't there
Heal us with the truth we're afraid to speak
Heal us with the questions we avoid
Heal us when we finally turn around
And see the empty space, the void
Where someone stood, where someone waited
Where someone hoped we'd call their name
Heal us so we notice next time
Before they walk away in shame
Words of truth, truth from intention
Words that see, that stay, that mend
Let communication be our bridge back
To those we lost, and to ourselves again
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