On learning to love the world without needing to be in the centre of it.
There was a time when ambition burned in my chest like a sacred fire. The need to create, to grow, to influence, to arrive—it kept me moving, expanding, proving. The world responded in kind. Recognition arrived. Milestones accumulated. But somewhere along the journey—perhaps too subtly to notice at first—the fire began to change.
It wasn’t extinguished. Just… refined.
As I leaned deeper into spiritual practices, into stillness and solitude, I noticed a quieting inside me. The edges of my drive softened. The external theatre of life began to lose its grip. The spotlight that once seemed inviting now felt a little too bright. The applause, once energising, began to echo hollow.
This wasn’t depression. It wasn’t detachment.
It was disentanglement.
With that came something else—something paradoxical. An urge to heal. Not through power or position, but through presence. Through being a quieter, softer instrument of life. I began to feel people’s wounds, their chaos, their masked performances. I wanted to hold space for them. To offer peace in a world addicted to noise.
And yet, at the same time, I wanted to be left alone.
This tension surprised me.
How could I want to serve and still withdraw?
How could I feel such compassion and yet crave solitude?
But over time, I realised this is a natural evolution on the spiritual path. The healer in us doesn’t always need to be visible. Nor everywhere. Nor among everyone.
There is a loneliness that’s painful—and then there’s a solitude that is sacred.
As I’ve walked further, I’ve found myself stepping back from conversations that once excited me. Social gatherings, once lively, now feel like overstimulating theatres. Not because they are wrong. But because I am no longer wired for performance. The noise doesn’t offend me—it simply doesn’t call me.
I’m learning to listen instead for resonance. For the few souls who don’t need explanations. With them, I don’t have to be the healer or the host. I can just be.
And maybe that’s what real service is—not fixing, not preaching, not inserting ourselves into every drama. But holding a vibration so steady, so silent, that others remember their own.
You can love the world deeply and still not want to be in the middle of its mess.
You can care sincerely and still choose silence.
You can offer healing—not through words or effort—but through your very stillness.
If you, too, feel this paradox—this urge to give and yet withdraw—know that you are not breaking apart. You are simply returning to your centre.
You are not less involved. You are more attuned.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.