We are taught very early that there is a correct way to interact with others. We are constantly trying to say the right thing, read the room correctly and land well. Most of us never question this. It simply becomes our most natural way of engaging with the world.

However, a conditioned way of seeing is not the only way of seeing. Once you experience a different way of relating to the world, it becomes harder to believe that the way you’ve always done things is the only way.

During a Short Term course in my sophomore year, I spent time in Ladakh, a mountainous region in northern India where Buddhist monasteries sit high in the Himalayas. One afternoon, I found myself in conversation with a monk about how he related to the world. Whilst talking he described the heart in a way I had never heard before.

The heart, he explained, was not simply emotion or impulse. It was a form of awareness grounded in understanding and acceptance, something that remains attentive even when the mind becomes reactive or tired.

As he spoke, something in me softened. My shoulders dropped. The quiet monitoring that usually accompanies conversations, the subtle effort to respond correctly or say something thoughtful, began to fade. I wasn’t trying to interpret his words or prepare a response. I was simply there, listening.

What changed in that moment wasn’t what I thought about the world, it was how I was engaging with it.

Later, I realized that I had encountered this way of relating long before traveling to the Himalayas. Years earlier, as a camper at seeds of peace- a program that brings together young adults from around the country differing in race, religion, economic status among many other aspects for intentional and curated dialogue and conversation surrounding issues that all campers had different experiences and perspectives on. In this space I had experienced something similar.

Those conversations were very different from the debates and discussions I was used to. The pace was slower. Interruptions were minimized. Participants were encouraged to speak from personal experience rather than argue positions or defend ideas. Listening was treated as seriously as speaking.

What struck me most was how differently people related to one another in that environment. Individuals who might have seemed guarded or cautious in other settings became reflective and open. The shift did not appear to come from sudden personal transformation. Instead, it seemed to arise from the conditions of the conversation itself.

When the pressure to perform eased, something else became possible.

As I entered my junior year back on campus, I began noticing how easily the opposite dynamic takes hold. In many spaces, classrooms, workplaces and even friendships, we are encouraged to lead with our minds. We learn to think quickly, speak clearly and manage how we are perceived by others. These skills are valuable, but over time they can create a subtle imbalance. Thinking becomes the dominant way we move through the world, while emotional and relational awareness quietly recedes into the background.

For most people, this does not appear as a dramatic crisis. It shows up in smaller ways. In conversations, we begin planning what we will say next while someone else is still speaking. In moments that call for honesty or vulnerability, our attention shifts toward saying the “right” thing rather than the true one. Our bodies tighten slightly as we anticipate how our words might be received.

Over time, relationships can start to feel like something we manage rather than something we simply inhabit.

At first, it is easy to interpret this as a personal shortcoming. If we feel disconnected from our emotional lives, we may assume a lack of openness or self-awareness. Luckily, my past experiences suggested another possibility.

If the difference between guardedness and authenticity could emerge from the conditions of a conversation, what would happen if those conditions were intentionally recreated?

I had felt that shift before: in Ladakh, and years earlier at Seeds of Peace. There was something about those spaces that made it easier to drop whatever I thought I was supposed to be and just be there.

I started to wonder if that “magic” wasn’t random. If it had something to do with how those conversations were held.

This question ultimately became the foundation of my senior thesis at Bates.

To explore this, I organized a small dialogue series with a group of Bates students. Each session focused on a different obstacle that often separates people from their emotional awareness: vulnerability, over-identification with thought, disconnection from the body and concern with social perception. The conversations moved from recognizing these patterns in the broader culture to reflecting on how they showed up in our own lives, before closing with activities designed to support integration. These activities included writing letters to people participants had not had the opportunity to speak to, or to past versions of themselves. The goal was to make what emerged usable, so it did not remain as insight sitting in the mind, but could be carried forward by participants.

Together, these conversations created a space where dialogue could slow down and people could reconnect with their own emotional awareness, what many participants simply described as their “heart.”

As the dialogue series unfolded, small but noticeable shifts began to appear in the room. Participants who initially spoke cautiously began sharing more than they expected. Moments of silence, something that can feel uncomfortable in many conversations, started to feel natural. Instead of rushing to respond, people paused. Words felt less rehearsed and more connected to immediate experience.

Part of what made this possible was the structure of the space itself. Each session began slowly, often with a brief grounding exercise that invited participants to notice their breath and the sensations in their bodies. Conversations unfolded gradually, with clear norms around listening and interruption. Over time, the room began to settle, as if everyone recognized that this was a space where they did not need to rush.

Within that container, participants also began recognizing their own patterns in the stories of others.

Someone describing their tendency to overthink heard another participant talk about getting lost in their mind. Someone speaking about hesitating to show emotion saw  that others carried the same concern about how they might be perceived. Others noticed how easily they disconnected from their bodies when conversations became difficult.

What initially felt like personal shortcomings began to look more like shared human responses to the environments we move through.

Many of us have learned, often without realizing it, to rely heavily on thinking, composure and self-presentation. These habits can help us navigate fast-paced academic and social environments, but they can also create distance from emotional and embodied experience. As participants heard others describe similar patterns, the obstacles separating people from their emotional lives began to feel less like private failures and more like common adaptations.

When people recognized these patterns in one another, the room softened.

Instead of trying to fix themselves, participants often became more curious about their own experience. Several began noticing pauses before speaking, tension in their bodies during difficult moments, or the way their minds raced to explain things quickly. These moments of awareness were subtle, but they marked an important shift: attention was turning inward rather than outward toward performance.

I noticed a shift in myself as well.

At the beginning of the dialogue series, I felt responsible for guiding the conversation carefully: making sure the right questions were asked and that discussion stayed on track. Over time, however, I began to realize that the most meaningful moments were not happening because of anything I said.

They were happening because of the space and container the group was holding together.

When participants felt that they could speak without being rushed or evaluated, they naturally began listening more deeply to one another and to themselves. Presence was not something I could deliver or teach. It emerged gradually as people sensed that they did not need to perform.

One participant described the experience simply: learning how to hold their own heart while listening to someone else’s.

None of these changes happened all at once. They unfolded slowly over the course of several weeks. The group became more comfortable with silence. Participants spoke with fewer disclaimers and less hesitation. Listening began to feel less like waiting for a turn to talk and more like a shared practice of attention.

These shifts may seem small, but they point to something important.

Many of the barriers that separate people from their hearts are not signs of individual weakness. They are often adaptive responses to environments that reward speed, clarity and careful self-presentation. When conversations move quickly and evaluation is constant, the mind naturally takes the lead.

But when the pace slows, and when people realize that others are navigating the same internal obstacles, those barriers can begin to loosen.

The heart, a quieter voice within us, often has not disappeared. More often, it has simply been waiting for the conditions in which it can be heard again.