SAAMAKSHI MEDIUM

We spent so much time teaching our children how to explain themselves that we forgot to teach them how to trust themselves. Every day, we ask them for reasons.  Why did you do that? Why do you feel that way?  In our push for safety and logic, we conditioned them to believe a feeling isn't real unless it comes wrapped in an argument. In doing so, we cut them off from their original compass. Ancient cultures never made this mistake. The Aboriginal people of Australia lived by  Dadirri :  a deep, silent listening to the quiet current beneath thought. They didn’t teach children to dissect the world with intellect; they taught them to sit still, feel the subtle shifts in their gut, and stay open to the divine. To them, intuition wasn't a guess. It was the primary language of life. Children arrive with this channel wide open. They don't need lessons on how to sense truth. But every time we demand a logical explanation for a pure hunch, we teach them to doubt their own inne...

We spend so much of our lives trying to fix the turbulence between ourselves and other people. The moment friction arises, a sharp comment at work, a silent distance in a relationship, an unexpected clash of opinions - our default instinct is to intervene. We feel an urgent need to react, to manage, or to somehow resolve the discomfort. When we seek guidance, the standard advice is almost always:  "Just accept them as they are."  It sounds like the absolute pinnacle of spiritual maturity. But if you really unpack what happens inside you during that moment, "acceptance" is often just a clever disguise for the ego. The second you tell yourself,  "I accept this person,"  ask yourself: who is actually doing the accepting? It’s still an inner "I." It’s a quiet, mental position where you sit back, play the mature one, and grant someone permission to be flawed. Even with the softest intentions, "accepting" someone carries a subtle drop of cond...

We spend the better part of our lives imprisoned by a quiet, exhausting delusion: the belief that if we can just engineer the behaviour of those around us, we will finally taste peace. Without realizing it, we move through our relationships like invisible directors holding a script nobody else signed up for. We demand that others love like us, communicate like us, and perceive the world as we do. And when they inevitably fail to play their assigned roles, we react with friction, resentment, and deep emotional pain. But the pain was never caused by their failure. It was born from our own attachment to the illusion of control. Every relationship we enter carries a web of heavy mental tags:  A parent should respond this way. A spouse must act like that. A friend ought to show up here.  We overlay these rigid archetypes onto living, evolving human beings, completely blind to the reality that love expresses itself in infinite dialects. When we demand that someone fit our mold,...

A friend visited me at work, and it was a grand day, the kind of day that makes you a little too aware of how good it feels, and right there, in that small warm moment, an old fear slipped in, quiet as a current under still water -  what if this good fortune pulls something toward it that takes it away.  Almost every culture carries a version of this instinct, the evil eye, nazar, the old superstition of not saying good news out loud too soon, different names for the same reflex, the moment life feels too good some part of us flinches and braces for the cost, the way a hand pulls back from water before it even knows if it's cold. I caught the thought mid-loop, and instead of following it downstream, I let it dissolve into something simpler - if the joy stays, that's grace, and if it doesn't, that's also grace, and who am I to decide which way the water moves, who am I to assume I even have a task in this. I am nothing without that which holds me. Whatever happens, I am ...

We carry our past wounds like heavy armour, walking through life deeply guarded, constantly adjusting the weight of our defences. After a deep heartbreak, a betrayal, or a sudden loss, a silent, anxious whisper echoes within the mind:   “Why are you so scared to get hurt a second time?” To protect ourselves, we look outward. We adopt the rigid boundaries prescribed by the collective yardstick of society, the unwritten rules that dictate what is acceptable, what is safe, and what is dangerous. We convince ourselves that our love, compassion, and vulnerability must be strictly rationed, reserved only for perfect conditions. We decide that certain outcomes, whether it is manipulation, infidelity, or the fragility of ill health, must never happen again, so we build mental walls to shut the world out. This deep fear makes the mind hyper-vigilant. We begin policing life. If we see a relative suffer due to poor health, we instantly become anxious about the habits of everyone around us. We...

We live in an era of deep analysis. We have learned to dissect our pasts, mapping out our lives through the language of trauma, regression, and childhood wounds. It is easy, almost natural now to look at the friction in our adult lives and point backward at the people who raised us. But if we pause the analysis for just a moment, a quieter truth waits in the background. Before the labels, before the misunderstandings, and before the heavy psychological terms, there is a fundamental reality: we have a life to live, an intellect to argue with, and a voice to complain with, simply because they chose to give us a platform. In the grand architecture of human existence, the intent of a parent is a sacred thing. It is rarely perfect, and it is almost always messy, but at its core, it is an automated impulse to offer the best they know how to give. They fumble. They go overboard. They run on old blueprints of control and worry. Yet, how can the world’s most profound connection, the very cord t...

Look, we've all been there. Lying awake at 2 AM thinking, "God, I wish my parents were different." More affectionate. Less critical. Present instead of absent. The kind who actually  got  you instead of projecting their own stuff onto you. I get it. I've had that conversation with myself more times than I can count. And I've sat with hundreds of people who've said the same thing, tears streaming down their faces, asking: "Why couldn't I have just had normal, loving parents?" But here's the thing I've learned on this path, and it's going to sound weird at first:  You don't actually need nice parents. You need effective ones. And here's the kicker, every parent is effective. Even the terrible ones. Especially the terrible ones, sometimes. What "Effective" Really Means Before you throw your phone across the room, hear me out. I'm not saying abuse is okay. I'm not asking you to slap a gratitude sticker on trauma ...

You can contribute only when your cup is full. Others cannot fill it for you. And you cannot overflow if you are already running on empty. We grow up believing the opposite. That giving more will somehow make us whole. That love, work, purpose, or even another person will pour into us what we are missing. Slowly, without realising it, we outsource our fullness. We wait for someone to show up differently, for life to be kinder, for things to finally make sense. Until then, we keep giving from whatever is left. But an empty cup does not overflow. It only leaks. True contribution does not come from effort. It comes from abundance. When you are full, giving is not a sacrifice. It is a natural movement, like breath leaving the body. When you are empty, every act of giving costs you something. You begin to resent what once felt meaningful. You feel tired even when you are doing what you love. You start asking for returns, for recognition, for reassurance, because deep down you are borrowing ...

For so long, all the counsel, all the systems, and all the psychology, the endless well of self-help has sung the same seductive song: The answer is inside you. You must become the archaeologist of your own pain. Dig deep. Find the old wound. Fix it. Let it go. And so, obediently, every time you felt that familiar ache of rejection, that heavy blanket of sadness, or that sharp sting of being totally down, you dedicated yourself to the task. You sat down with a notebook, meticulously looking through old memories, mapping every trauma, every slight, every fear, always in search of the one thing: what you were doing wrong. But I am here, standing firmly at the water’s edge, to tell you, with the force of a fundamental truth: Stop the digging. Stop the analyzing. You are not the problem. I have come to completely disagree with the models that demand this intense, intellectual picking apart of the self. Here is the quiet realization I’ve received: The more you try to learn, t...

Let's be honest. We all secretly want to be the Gandalf in someone else’s life story. We want to swoop in, drop a pearl of hard-earned wisdom, and watch as their life dramatically rights itself, all thanks to our brilliant piece of unsolicited advice. We crave that "Aha! You changed my life!" moment. We want to be the wise, appreciated sage. But today, I’m going to tell you a little secret:  guiding someone who hasn't asked you for directions is the absolute worst form of love. It’s a toxic little cocktail, and here’s why. The Ego Trap For one, it’s entirely driven by ego. We feel a little bit superior, don't we? We think,  “Oh, if only they did what I did, they wouldn’t be making that mistake.”  That feeling of being "ahead" is a massive ego boost. We're telling them what to do because we genuinely believe we know better, even when they’re perfectly fine finding their own way. And two, when they inevitably don’t listen to your sage advice (because i...

A wise man once said that a grudge is like a stone in the heart. Heavy. Cold. Silent, yet weighing us down in ways we can barely measure. We’ve all been told to forgive, to release, to let go. And so often, we convince ourselves that we have, because we stopped reacting, because we distanced ourselves, because we quietly send love from afar while still holding that invisible wall. But deep within, the story remains. The story of what they did, how they failed us, how they broke us, how we will never let it happen again. That story becomes the lens through which we see them, the script we hand them to act out every time they walk into our lives. And then we nod knowingly “see, I told you so.” But this is not forgiveness. This is not letting go. This is living in a prison of your own making . We cling to the saying “forgive but don’t forget,” not realizing that this is exactly what keeps us chained. Because if you don’t forget, if you don’t truly delete the story, then forgiveness is onl...

There comes a time in life when you begin to notice the invisible frameworks that shape how people live. Some follow the path of ambition, climbing ladders in the corporate world. Others dedicate themselves to family, to tradition, to holding together the roots of belonging. Some define themselves through culture, others through rebellion. Each way of living has its own rules, its own rhythm, its own sense of identity. They are like rivers flowing in different directions, and most of us are taught to pick one and stay in its current. Society whispers that you must belong somewhere, or risk being left behind. Most people settle into these currents without ever asking if they truly chose them. Comfortable rules are easier to follow. They give a sense of safety, of belonging, of certainty. The herd moves one way, and it feels secure to move with it. But comfort has a quiet cost. It lulls us into believing that the familiar is the only truth, that to question is dangerous, that to step asi...

There’s something quietly breaking inside many of us. We love, we try, we give. But something still feels off. Our relationships feel heavy. Effortful. We find ourselves misunderstanding, pulling away, or just… going through the motions. Why? Because somewhere along the way, we stopped honouring our  core,  our dharma. We forgot who we are at the deepest level, and began living from roles, patterns, expectations, and wounds. And when we forget who we are, how can we truly meet another? Shiva and Shakti are not just deities. They are energies. Archetypes. Reflections of  you  and  me . The masculine and feminine forces that exist in all things. In every one of us. Shiva is consciousness. Intention. The stillness. The structure. Shakti is energy. Emotion. Creation. The movement. The flow. One without the other is incomplete. Let’s make it simple. To create a child, you need both: Shiva’s seed and Shakti’s womb. One without the other cannot create life. But this ap...