SAAMAKSHI MEDIUM

The other day, I was sharing something small with my husband — just a simple moment, something that happened in passing with another mom. But as I spoke it out loud, I paused. I realised the story I was narrating wasn’t just about what happened. It was about how I saw it. How I felt it. It was  my  version of the moment. My perception wrapped around the facts. And suddenly, the insight came in: nothing we experience is ever entirely real in the way we think. Because what happened has already happened. It’s gone. The moment doesn’t live anymore, except in how we carry it, how we replay it, how we choose to give it shape again through words and memory. There’s no measurement to the past. It cannot be weighed or proven. And if that’s true, then there is no real past, and no defined future either. Only this. This very moment, this breath, this now. Everything that matters is always happening here. But we don’t live like that, do we? We drag the past around, tying events together l...

Have you ever noticed how some people seem to move through life effortlessly? Their plans work out, they get what they aim for, and things just seem to align for them. They’re not always deeply spiritual or endlessly self-reflective. They’re not constantly reading books about healing or manifesting under the full moon. And yet, somehow, they seem to get it right. It’s tempting to think they’re lucky or that their stars are better aligned. But really, what they have is clarity. And more than that, they trust themselves. They don’t sit for weeks doubting what they already know. They don’t need to collect twenty signs before taking one small step. They aren’t at war with their own intuition. They hear what their inner voice is saying and they listen. That trust becomes a frequency they move in. And life responds, not because they’re doing something magical, but because they’re in alignment with themselves. We often forget how energetic life is. Everything around us responds to how we trea...

What offends you, what moves you, what you tolerate and what you don’t—these are not flaws or preferences. They are the fingerprints of your story. Humour to one is hostility to another. What you find disrespectful, someone else may find familiar. There is no universal scale for pain or dignity. That is the great myth. We’ve tried to grade boundaries like exams, forgetting that our boundaries were born from different childhoods, different wounds, different silences. So what we call “too sensitive,” or “too harsh,” or “too soft” are often just people living at the edge of their own survival. In a job, one person might say “yes sir” out of generational humility, his father, his grandfather, all men who bowed before they spoke. Another might challenge every order, not out of ego, but because silence once cost them their self-worth. Neither is wrong. Both are boundary stories, lived in different dialects. In families, what one calls duty, another sees as control. What feels like respect to...

I don’t know where it started, really. Maybe in the middle of a podcast, or while half-asleep reading some book on consciousness. Or maybe it was just silence, the kind that hums behind your thoughts when you're tired of chasing clarity. But there it was—this simple, almost stupid realisation: All I’m doing is collecting information. Not wisdom. Not enlightenment. Not truth with a capital T. Just... data. Facts. Patterns. Perspectives. Even the most moving quote or profound philosophy—still just information. And here's the thing. We dress it up, don’t we? Call it intelligence. Say someone has sharp memory, analytical mind, high EQ, spiritual insight. But isn’t it all just information rearranged and re-accessed in different ways to get through life? Like a pen drive, really. A pen drive filled with folders labelled “childhood,” “beliefs,” “traumas,” “desires,” “books read,” “teachers followed,” “Instagram quotes,” “late-night journal entries.” All of it stored. All of it running...

What if you didn’t take that course just to earn more… but to understand more? What if you said yes to that project not for the bonus, but because it challenged you, made you more patient, helped someone? What if your effort wasn’t measured in rewards but in intent? The way we look at work has become so transactional. We do something, and immediately think: what’s the return? Will this pay off? Will I get noticed? And slowly, without even realizing, we start treating every step as a calculation. Every new skill, every new task, every hour spent… it all starts circling around one goal : earn more, stay ahead, take on more than you can handle. But there’s a catch no one talks about. The more you grow, the more guilty you feel for stopping. You tell yourself to rest, but rest feels like falling behind. You want to slow down, but there’s always that voice whispering you haven’t done enough. Even success becomes heavy. Because now that you’ve “made it,” you have to maintain it. This cycle w...

It begins quietly. Not with ceremony, not with structure, not even with certainty. It begins in a moment when your breath catches - just slightly - and you find yourself pausing, not because someone told you to, but because something inside you finally asked for stillness. Meditation is not a skill to master; it is not a badge to wear or a routine to perfect. It is the earliest sign that you are listening. It is the invitation to meet your own presence without judgment. And that moment, that first flicker of awareness is the beginning of everything. We often dress spirituality in layers : disciplines, rules, practices, rights and wrongs. But the true spiritual path is not about doing; it is about noticing. It is not built on the bones of rituals but on the softness of your own seeing. It has nothing to do with impressing society or improving your wellness score; it has everything to do with remembering how to be in awe. Awe does not need a script. It arrives in the middle of a mundane ...

Every now and then, someone will tell me, “I’m tired of thinking positive. It feels fake, like I’m lying to myself.” And I always pause before I respond, because I remember exactly what that feels like. I remember when I first started my journey with affirmations. I plastered sticky notes all over my mirror :  I am enough, I am worthy, I am loved.  I wanted to believe them so badly. But some mornings, I’d look into my own eyes and feel nothing. Or worse, resistance. That quiet voice inside would whisper,  stop bullshitting yourself.  And that voice… that was the real block. Not the lack of affirmations. But the presence of disbelief. Because if deep within you, there’s still a knot of old stories -  I’m not lovable. I’m not capable. Good things don’t happen to people like me,  then no matter how many times you repeat a beautiful sentence, it won’t land. It’s like pouring water over concrete, hoping something will grow. That’s when I learned: positive though...

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....

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...