Be That Stranger

I was waiting outside a small clinic one afternoon, seated on one of those plastic chairs that never quite support your back. People came and went. A nurse called out names. Someone dropped a file. A child tugged at his mother’s sleeve. It was ordinary in every possible way.

And yet, in that quiet in-between space, I noticed how invisible we all were to one another.

We sat side by side, close enough to hear each other breathe, yet wrapped in our own private worlds. Phones in hand. Eyes lowered. Each carrying something unspoken. Worry. Fatigue. Hope. A long day ahead.

Strangers, all of us.

I caught myself doing the same. Waiting. Observing. Staying politely distant.

That’s when the thought arrived, gently, without drama.

We are all strangers. Until someone stops. Looks. Listens. Stays.

Be that stranger, please.

Over the years, I’ve spent countless hours traveling within cities – back seats of cars becoming temporary confession rooms. Drivers often start with small talk. Traffic. Weather. Fuel prices. But if you stay long enough, and listen without interruption, something deeper emerges.

One spoke about a daughter preparing for exams.

Another about rising rents and shrinking margins.

One quietly shared how he drives twelve hours a day to pay hospital bills.

I learned that if I don’t rush the ride, if I don’t reach for my phone, these conversations open up on their own. They don’t want solutions. They want to be heard. Sometimes all I offer is silence and a nod. Yet when I step out of the car, I carry their stories with me.

Invisible lives brushing past each other.

Airports have taught me something similar.

Between boarding calls and security lines, I’ve found myself talking to children who ask innocent questions about destinations, and parents who look tired but hopeful. A boy once told me he was afraid of flying. His mother smiled politely, trying to reassure him. I crouched down and told him that airplanes are just big birds learning new skies. He smiled.

Small moment.

But it stayed with me.

We forget how starved people are for simple presence.

In corporate life, I’ve stood in many rooms filled with ambition and expectation. Workshops where participants arrive guarded, arms crossed, minds already busy with deliverables. I’ve learned to open these sessions differently now.

Not with slides.

With stories.

I ask them where they come from. What keeps them awake at night. What they hope will change.

At first there is hesitation.

Then someone speaks.

Soon another follows.

A young manager talks about feeling unseen.

A senior leader admits burnout.

A new hire shares fear of not belonging.

I listen.

Really listen.

And slowly, without force, the room softens. Once people feel heard, alignment happens naturally. From there, guiding them toward the purpose of the workshop becomes effortless. Not because I led them strongly – but because they arrived together.

Presence does that.

It creates quiet coherence.

There was a time when I thought leadership was about direction. About clarity, control, decisiveness. I was good at that. Careers were built. Businesses grew. Teams scaled.

But somewhere along the way, I began noticing what gets lost in constant motion.

How easy it is to become efficient strangers.

Even at home.

Children growing into their own worlds. Conversations becoming shorter. Love learning new languages. Some evenings we shared the same room but lived in different mental universes. I would watch everyone scroll through their screens and wonder when we stopped noticing each other’s silences.

Sometimes I was part of that silence.

I realized connection doesn’t fade because people don’t care.

It fades because everyone is tired.

Tired of explaining.

Tired of holding space.

Tired of always being the one who reaches out.

So we retreat.

We armor up.

Years ago, I began practicing something quietly radical for myself.

Every Sunday, from six in the morning till six in the evening, I don’t speak a single word.

Not one.

I remain among people. I participate in family activities. I cook. I walk. I sit in gatherings. I attend to what’s needed.

But I stay silent.

At first it felt strange. Then uncomfortable. Eventually, illuminating.

Without words, you notice more. Faces. Body language. Subtle shifts in energy. You become aware of how often speech is used to assert, defend, or distract. Silence teaches restraint. It teaches humility. It teaches how much noise lives inside us.

Those Sundays changed me.

They showed me how rarely we are truly present – even with ourselves.

Invisible battles don’t announce themselves.

They just sit inside you, quietly.

There was a phase in my life when I was surrounded by people yet felt profoundly alone. Success was visible. Responsibilities were heavy. Family needs were real. Inside, there was a constant negotiation between being strong and being tired. Between showing up and wanting to disappear for a while.

I’ve been that engineer who stayed back after workshops, unsure how to articulate confusion.

I’ve been that parent wondering where closeness went.

I’ve been that leader moving too fast to notice quiet distress.

And slowly, gently, I began choosing differently.

Staying back after meetings.

Asking one more question.

Putting the phone away.

Not to fix anything.

Just to be there.

Sometimes it felt awkward. Often inconvenient.

But occasionally, something softened.

A shoulder dropped.

A voice steadied.

Eyes met.

Nature does this quietly too. Trees grow side by side, roots intertwined underground, yet standing alone above the surface. We are not as separate as we appear.

Even now, some evenings I stand by the window and watch city lights come alive. Thousands of homes. Millions of stories. So many lives unfolding in parallel. Each person navigating private struggles, private hopes, private waiting rooms.

And I feel a gentle humility.

We don’t need to solve each other.

We just need to see each other.

Leadership feels different to me now. Less about influence. More about attention. Less about authority. More about presence. Family feels different too. Love shows up in staying five minutes longer. In noticing tired eyes. In listening without interruption.

Even with myself, I am learning to be a kinder stranger.

To sit with restlessness.

To acknowledge fatigue without judgment.

To allow silence to do its work.

We are all strangers.

Until someone stops.

Looks.

Listens.

Stays.

Tonight, as I write this, I hold that thought quietly.

Not as a principle.

Not as advice.

Just as a reminder to myself.

Be that stranger, please.