Gayathri heads Shri Natesan Vidyasala School in Chennai and writes on education, student-teacher relationships, and life skills, regularly contributing to the Times of India Education Edition, and several international and national magazines. She is the author of the book, Never Alone.

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Gayathri Ramachandran

<h4 style="text-align:justify;">Gayathri Ramachandran explores the value of authenticity and courage in communication, first with herself and also with others. As an educator, heading Shri Natesan Vidyasala School, in Chennai, India, and a writer, regularly contributing to the Times of India Education Edition, and several international and national magazines, Gayathri is forging a path of self-care that will surely give permission for her fellow teachers and students to open their hearts and embody the age-old value of truthfulness.&nbsp;&nbsp;</h4>Life was perfect. Or at least, so it seemed. I had everything anyone could ask for—my work was going great, my personal life was smooth, and on the surface, I looked happy, blessed, and fulfilled. It felt like I was on top of the world. Or was I? If you’d asked me, I’d have said yes—a big, loud “Yes.” There were no visible cracks. No drama. Nothing falling apart.But there was also a small “No.” A whisper, tucked away in a corner of my heart. I couldn’t quite explain it, but something wasn’t right. Despite having it all, there were days I struggled to get out of bed. Nights when sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how hard I tried. Even the things I once loved—like my morning and evening walks—felt like chores. Connecting with people, which used to energize me, now felt exhausting. I smiled. I laughed. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t real. I was confused. I was scared. I didn’t know what was happening. And worst of all, I didn’t know to whom to talk.Should I seek help? The person I am, the work I do... how could I admit something was wrong? On the outside, everything was fine. But inside, it wasn’t.This feeling, and the heaviness, the random illnesses, the sudden tears, kept growing, bit by bit, day by day. It reached a point where I couldn’t ignore it anymore. It wasn’t just a phase; it was a storm quietly tearing me apart.I started to realize that just maybe, this was because I had spent too long ignoring my own needs. I was so scared of hurting the people I love that I stopped doing what I loved. I prioritized everyone else’s happiness, even when it meant sacrificing my own. I told myself I was strong enough to handle it, that it didn’t matter if I was unhappy, as long as the people around me were okay. But the truth is, it did matter.And then, I lost someone very close to me—a friend, a mentor, a guiding light in my life. She had always been there to hold my hand, give me advice, and simply listen when I needed to pour my heart out. I thought I had come to terms with it. I told myself I had moved on. But I hadn’t. The pain of her absence hit me in waves. Sometimes, it was the smallest things—a memory, a moment—that reminded me she wasn’t there anymore.&nbsp;The thought that I couldn’t turn to her, couldn’t hear her voice or feel her comfort, left an ache so deep that I couldn’t put it into words. I missed her terribly. And as much as I tried to push it all aside, it stayed with me, growing heavier with each passing day.This heaviness was something I could no longer ignore. It wasn’t just about losing her. It was about losing parts of myself—the parts that gave, gave, and gave until there was nothing left. I thought my boat was strong enough to sail through any storm, but now I see that even the smallest hole can let the water in, slowly but surely. And if I didn’t stop to fix it, it could sink me. It was time to stop pretending everything was fine. I felt alone. It was time to listen to that little “No.”So, I tried. I started writing, pouring my feelings onto paper. Did it help? Yes, but only a little. I began keeping a gratitude journal, focusing on what was good each day. Did it help? Yes, but only a little. I returned to singing, hoping it would bring the joy it once did. Did it help? Yes, but only a little. I added more moments of stillness to my day—five minutes became eleven, and soon twice a day. Did it help? Yes, but only a little.<hr><h4 style="text-align:center;">Life isn’t perfect, and it doesn’t have to be.&nbsp; What matters is that I show up, fully and honestly, with the people who matter most.</h4><hr>Somewhere along the way, I realized that all these things were only helping a little. They weren’t enough to fill the growing void inside me. One day, I decided I needed to speak to someone. I thought it might help, that sharing might lighten the burden. But when the moment came, I couldn’t.Fear held me back.Fear of being judged. Fear of not being understood. Fear of being ignored. Fear of sounding silly. Fear of Silence.&nbsp; Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of speaking even to the closest ones.All these fears swirled inside me, tightening the knot in my chest, misaligning everything within me. The energy within wasn’t flowing the way it should be! The hole in my boat couldn’t be ignored anymore. It was time to face it. Time to start healing. Time to stop pretending everything was okay.And finally, when I spoke to my friend, it all became clear. I discovered the root of my struggle—the fear of communicating. Deep down, I was afraid of being told I sounded rude, irrational, or unacceptable. I feared my words would lead to arguments or hurt feelings. Slowly, this fear had silenced me. It had become a clog in my heart, building up over the years until it consumed me.I realized something important that day: silence can feel safe, but it can also be a slow poison. It creates distance where there should be closeness. It builds walls where there should be bridges.In trying to protect others from my thoughts and feelings, I unknowingly punished myself. Worse, I punished the people who love me, the ones who deserved my honesty.I should have shared what I felt when things didn’t feel right, expressed what I wanted, or voiced what I needed. Instead, I bottled it all up, keeping everything inside until it became too much. And in doing so, I let so many beautiful moments slip away. When this realization hit me, I cried. I cried for all the precious time I had lost, for the days and months I can never get back; time when I could have been honest, when I could have connected deeply with the people who mattered most.But amidst those tears of regret, were also tears of gratitude.Gratitude for the all-knowing, all-loving force that held me together through it all. Gratitude that, despite my silence, I hadn’t lost what truly mattered. I could have experienced losses so deep they left my life at a dead end—unable to express my love, my joy, my gratitude, my struggles, my failures, and my triumphs. But that didn’t happen. Everything and everyone I hold dear is still here. And for that, I’m endlessly thankful.Now, finally, I’ve found the hole in my boat.Life isn’t perfect, and it doesn’t have to be. What matters is that I show up, fully and honestly, with the people who matter most. The hole in my boat wasn’t silence itself—it was the fear that silence would protect me. But I am learning to fix the hole now.<figure class="image"><img src="https://cdn-prod-static.heartfulness.org/hole_in_the_boat2_94dbca69a7.webp" alt="hole-in-the-boat2.webp"></figure>I am learning to communicate. To speak. To express myself to the people who matter most, no matter what the outcome might be. I never want fear to grip me again.And I hope, if you’re reading this, you’ll find the courage to do the same. Don’t let fear of judgment or rejection hold you back. Speak your truth. Share your heart. Fix your boat.Because life is too precious to let it sink.