SAAMAKSHI MEDIUM

Are we addicted to chaos? The sacred stillness we keep avoiding. You can motivate. You can inspire. You can hold space. But you cannot make the change. That moment must be born from within - not coerced, not explained into existence. Transformation is not a transaction. It is an awakening. And like all awakenings, it arrives in its own time, when the soul is ready to remember. We live in a world obsessed with control - of outcomes, of people, of ourselves. But control is not power. It is the illusion of safety. Real power begins the moment we surrender the need to direct everything and instead, listen. This is where healing begins - not with effort, but with acceptance. Acceptance not as resignation, but as recognition: this is what is, now. In that still point, transformation begins. We have become so used to noise. So used to rushing, explaining, fixing. We are addicted to chaos, not because we love suffering, but because it’s familiar. Stillness, on the other hand, feels dangerous. ...

There’s something both tragic and beautiful about how seriously we take ourselves. Every high, every heartbreak, every tiny win on a Tuesday — we hold them close like precious proof that we’re truly living. We celebrate, sulk, spiral, perform. We move through joy and despair as though they define us. And for a moment, they do. But what if it’s all just a play? Not to dismiss the beauty or the ache. Both are real in their own time. But what if pride, sorrow, laughter, longing — all of it — were just the costumes of being human? Experiences to pass through, not homes to live in. The truth is no matter what role you’re playing today, you’re also the one watching it unfold. And that watcher — still, aware, unchanging — is where freedom begins. Freedom is not in avoiding emotion. It’s in knowing it’s not you. It’s in being able to laugh gently at your own emotional weather without letting it storm inside you. We often think choice is grand. Choosing careers, partners, new cities....

We love the idea of the “gut feeling” That silent whisper of intuition That sacred signal from within that tells us which road to take What if it’s simply data = memories, patterns, conditioning, wrapped in the illusion of instinct. There is only this. The present choice You become deliberate, not reactive You learn to wait. To observe. To choose We don’t need certainty. We need presence Not the flutter in your stomach But the calm in your choosing. Think of a recent decision you said was based on a “gut feeling.” Ask: What did I already know that may have shaped that feeling? Was I responding, or just recognizing? But pause for a moment What if that gut feeling isn’t divine guidance It feels sacred because it arrives without explanation. But not everything inexplicable is mystical. Often, it’s just processed information our conscious mind hasn’t yet caught up with. Every feeling you call “gut” is stitched together from a million impressions you’ve gathered. Childhood pat...

What would you do if you were no longer afraid? If your bank account were full, your family cared for, your future sealed in the soft certainty of enough, what then? Would you still run? Would you wake with the same urgency? Would you check your phone within seconds, race through breakfast, and offer your peace as payment for ambition? Or would you pause? Would you remember what light feels like on your skin? Would you sit beside a window, or pick up something you left behind years ago : an old paintbrush, a poem, a dream? They say, “Do what you love.” But love is not loud. It doesn’t compete for attention. It lives in quiet corners and asks only for your presence. The problem is not that people don’t want to live meaningfully, it’s that they’re tired. Tired from running in circles that promise everything and give back so little of what matters. You hear it often: “If I had enough money, I’d do nothing.” But what they mean is:  I want to stop surviving. They long not for stillness,...

If I asked you,  “Tell me about yourself,”  what would you say? You might smile politely and begin listing the usual things: your name, your job, where you live, maybe what you like to do on weekends. And I’d nod, of course. But what if I gently asked again: No titles No roles No labels No timelines No definitions Now, tell me about yourself. It’s not such an easy question anymore, is it? We spend so much of our lives being introduced to ourselves through the eyes of the world. We are told who we are, how to be, what to become. We build ourselves around labels like stones: daughter, manager, Hindu, artist, overachiever, dreamer. We begin to think these bricks are the house. But they’re just the outer walls. The deeper truth of who you are is not in your bio or résumé or in the roles you juggle with grace each day. It's not in what you do or what you believe. It's not even in the stories you’ve told yourself to make sense of your life. So, who are you underneath? What remains w...

We live in a time that rewards output but forgets to value balance. We applaud hustle, not harmony. And somewhere along the way, many of us forgot how to take care of the whole human we are. We measure success by how much we produce, not how we feel. We glorify the sleepless nights, the packed calendars, the constant motion,  proof that we’re “doing something.” But in all that doing, we often stop being. Being rested. Being present. Being at peace with ourselves. We’re taught that burnout is a badge. That pushing through discomfort is noble. That if you’re not constantly achieving, you’re somehow falling behind. But no one tells us what we’re actually chasing. Or what happens when we finally “make it” and still feel empty. What about the parts of us that don’t show up on performance reviews? The tenderness in our relationships. The calm in our breath. The joy of spending a day not optimizing for anything. These are markers of a life that’s working. But we’ve learned to ignore them,...

There comes a moment, often subtle, often inconvenient, when you’re staring at an organisational chart, a power matrix, a hierarchy carved in lines and titles, and something shifts. You realise: Everyone wants respect. But not the kind that once came with titles or seating order or income brackets. Not the kind that stood on a podium and looked down. Not anymore. The hunger now is for something more elusive: A respect that feels like reverence. A presence that isn’t bought but felt. Not fear cloaked as obedience, But something softer, something kinder. And so, the question arises: Do we want respect, or do we crave control? Are we commanding reverence, or are we demanding submission? Too often, what we label as leadership is a theatre of dominance, Where voices are lowered to assert, not to listen. Where tone becomes a weapon. Where we build walls instead of bridges Because we’ve confused power with being feared. But what if we flipped the script? What if power lived in how gently we c...

We are taught early to seek fairness, as if the world runs on equal measure. Do good, and good will return. Offer kindness, and it will be returned in kind. We chase this invisible symmetry like a rhythm we’re meant to dance in, and when the beat slips, when something feels off, we call it unfair. We blame the world, or power, or systems. But sometimes the imbalance isn’t out there. It’s in what we hold back. We think fairness lives in rules, in being right, in keeping peace. But much of what we call peace is just unspoken tension. Quiet avoidance. We soften our words to be palatable. We laugh when something stings. We lower our voice when it should rise. Not because we don’t see the wrong, but because we fear what happens if we name it. We hold ourselves back. Not for their sake, but because deep down, we don’t yet trust that our truth will be met with love. When we do not trust ourselves, we look at others through that same lens. Every silence feels loaded. Every misstep, betrayal. W...

We’ve all been there. You sit down, close your eyes, and try to meditate. But the mind doesn’t listen. The list of things to do is louder than the silence you’re seeking. And slowly, guilt creeps in. You’ve heard the saints, the books, the teachers: “Meditate every morning, sit in stillness, find your center.” You want to. Truly, you do. But life isn’t always a quiet room with crossed legs. So what then? Does that mean you’ve failed at being spiritual? Let’s pause here. Isn’t the whole point of meditation to help us live better now? Not in some distant, enlightened future. Not in a Himalayan cave. But here, amid the deadlines, the mess, the unwashed dishes, the 8:15 train. Why do we imagine that inner peace must arrive through perfect routines? Why do we treat it like a destination rather than something that walks beside us every moment, waiting for us to notice? There’s an old story. Maybe you’ve heard it before. A priest, a learned Brahmin, spent his entire life in devotion. Not a si...

Let’s be honest—whenever we do something, there’s almost always an expectation attached. Even when we do something nice, somewhere in the back of our minds, we’re thinking, ‘How does this benefit me?’ Maybe it’s wanting better attention from a partner, more love, a little extra appreciation. Or at work, it could be a better position, a raise, or just wanting to be seen. Everything becomes a transaction, a silent tally of effort versus reward. But what if the whole point wasn’t about getting something back? What if the act itself was the purpose, and the outcome was already taken care of? That sounds absurd, right? Like, what’s the point of working hard if you don’t know what you’re getting? But that’s exactly the paradox. The less you obsess over the result, the more things flow in ways you never imagined. There’s an old story in the Vedas about a conversation between Krishna and Arjuna. Arjuna was stuck—afraid to take action because he didn’t want to face the consequences. He was tang...

Success is not measured in wealth, titles, or relationships. It is not something you acquire, but something you  become . The people we admire—those who move through life with a quiet, effortless grace—haven’t followed a rigid formula. They have understood something deeper. Success is not in what you get, but in what you create. And to truly succeed, only two things matter. You create every day. Not just in the grand pursuits, but in the small, unnoticed moments. In how you speak, in how you listen, in how you respond to life. Every moment is an opportunity to bring something alive—a conversation, an idea, a feeling, an effort. But creation is not repetition. Doing the same job, following the same schedule, walking the same steps every day is not creation—it is merely  a replication of yesterday . And in a controlled environment, even predictable actions do not guarantee the same results. A child wakes up on time, so they go to bed on time, and the rest of the day falls into p...

Ever feel like life has become a series of checkboxes, a list of tasks that never truly  mean  anything? What if I told you that spirituality isn’t about stillness—it’s about  finding stillness in motion ? It’s not about escaping life’s flow, but about  riding it , fully present, fully alive. The secret? You figure things out  only  when you decide you will. The moment you say,  I don’t know how , or insist there’s only  one  way to do something, you lock yourself in. You stop creating. You stop expanding. And before you know it, life becomes a dull loop of repetition. But look around—there are at least 500 ways to put dish soap on a sponge. If something so basic holds endless possibilities, imagine the infinite ways to approach work, love, or problem-solving. The idea that there's only  one  right way? That’s the biggest illusion of all. That’s  slavery to tools . The Illusion of Process We’ve been trained to follow. To adhere...

Once, a guy I dated asked me, "Why are you so loving? For you, it’s like your partner is the best, without fault." And I said to him, almost without thinking, "Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?" Love, to me, has always felt like the most natural thing in the world, an offering, a surrender, a way of seeing people as they truly are. But in that moment, I realised something profound: genuine love is rare, not because people don’t want it, but because they’ve forgotten how to give and receive it fully. That realization stayed with me. I began to see how many people carry wounds from childhood, from relationships, from the world itself, wounds that make them cautious, skeptical, guarded. Not everyone grows up in a home where love is expressed freely, where warmth is a given. Some have never known what it means to be held without reason, to be accepted without conditions. And so, they hesitate, they measure, they hold back, afraid to give because they have learned that...