Whisper #15When the Heart Is Left Out

How hard life becomes
when the heart is left out of it.

Not abandoned dramatically.
Just quietly bypassed.

Life still functions.
Days move forward.
Decisions get made.

From the outside, things can even look good.

But inside, something is always slightly ahead of itself.

The mind takes over because it has to.
It plans.
It explains.
It stays alert.

It learns to scan rooms.
To anticipate reactions.
To stay one step ahead of discomfort.

Not because it wants control,
but because it doesn’t trust what hasn’t been felt yet.

What isn’t allowed into the heart doesn’t disappear.
It relocates.

It shows up as a chest that never fully softens.
As breath that stays shallow in public spaces.
As a body that’s braced even when nothing is happening.

You don’t need a dramatic story to recognize this.
You only need to notice how often you explain what you feel
before you’ve actually felt it.

How quickly you reach for clarity
instead of contact.

I’ve seen this most clearly in my own life.
Not all at once — slowly.

There was a period where everything looked right on paper.
Work was stable.
Structure was solid.
I kept going.

And yet, something in me was always slightly ahead of itself.

I ignored it — not aggressively, just quietly — until the body started to speak louder.

I noticed the same pattern in my practice.

There was a time when my flows were clean.
Handstands long.
Splits open.

Everything worked.

But I wasn’t checking in.
I was using the body to move.

I remember one of my teachers saying once — almost in passing — that postures done without awareness are just shapes.

At the time, I understood it intellectually.
I just didn’t feel it yet.

When the heart is ignored, the system compensates.
When the body is sidelined, the mind works overtime.
When feeling isn’t trusted, control becomes the substitute.

And life slowly loses texture.

Not meaning — texture.

The warmth of being affected.
The relief of not knowing for a moment.
The simple intimacy of feeling something move through you
without needing to name it.

Courage isn’t found in fixing this.
It’s found in seeing it clearly.

In noticing the cost of staying up there,
and asking — honestly, without drama —

Do I want to keep living like this?

Not
“What’s wrong with me?”

Not
“How do I solve this?”

Just:

Is this how I want to be in the world?

Sometimes that question alone
is enough to let the heart back into the room.

Not to take over.
Just to be included.

And when it is, life doesn’t become easier —
but it becomes whole again.

It doesn’t ask to be figured out.
It asks to be met.

With Love & Stillness,
Saf