shouting to nowhere

January 12, 2025

Imagine one of those vast mountain valleys opening in front of you. You’re standing slightly higher, with mountains on your right and on your left, so you can truly sense its depth - the way it stretches forward, its end invisible, an endless stream guiding a path you cannot preview.

You know where it begins, because that’s where civilisation ends. The noise is behind you. You can’t hear it anymore; it has faded into the distance. In front of you, silence prevails. Not empty, but full. The kind you don’t just hear, but feel. Heavy. Spacious. Alive.

You take a deep breath in, and with the outbreath, you scream into the vastness. You shout into nowhere. Loud. Unfiltered. Not to provoke a response, but because something inside you needs space. The sound carries pieces of you with it - thoughts, tensions, words you hadn’t shaped before - lifting them into the air, letting them scatter through the wind and sink into the valley.

You stop only when there’s nothing left to release. The echo lingers, bending and stretching until it blends back into silence. You can’t tell whether what you hear is the echo, or simply your wishful thinking - some imagined form of return.

You begin walking down the valley, step by step. You don’t see anyone. You’re not even sure whether the marks on the ground are traces of other hikers or projections of your own desire for some kind of company. Still, you follow them. From time to time, you pause and let your voice rise again. Sometimes louder. Sometimes softer. Sometimes shaped like a melody, sometimes like a sigh. Each sound leaves you a little lighter, as if you’re shedding weight you didn’t realise you were carrying.

Sometimes it’s anxiety that follows; other times, a deep sense of relaxation is all that remains.

Eventually, you see someone approaching from the opposite direction. A friendly face. A brief greeting as you pass. It’s a small exchange, but it reminds you that this valley holds more than just you. You continue.

Later, you meet someone else. They stop. You talk longer this time. Curiosity opens the space between you. They mention a voice they heard earlier - drifting, indistinct, carried by the wind. They ask if it was yours. The conversation deepens, and for a while, you walk together. Then, naturally, you part ways, each continuing along a different bend of the path.

As you move forward, you start noticing more people. Not all at once. Not predictably. Some appear briefly. Some linger. Some listen without speaking. Others respond and reshape what you offered, reflecting it back in ways you didn’t anticipate. You realise the valley was never empty. It was simply too wide to take in all at once. Sometimes miles go by before any response comes back.

This is how social media (or any of these openly shared platforms or cold e-mails sent) sometimes feels.

You speak into a vast, unfolding space. You share thoughts, questions, fragments of yourself, without knowing who might be just beyond the curve - listening, scrolling, pausing. You don’t know who will absorb what you release, or how it will land once it reaches them.

And still, you choose to put it out there.

Often not because it feels comfortable or easy, but because - especially when self-employed, or when with insights to share - if you don’t speak about it, no one will know about it.

Other times, it’s a pure channel of expression. Either way, you never know how it will land. It’s a kind of gamble, where everyone tries their best, sharing what feels right, while leaving other parts behind the curtain, locked in a safe space.

Part of you hopes the sound will meet someone who understands it, can relate to it in some way, or opens new ways they didn't know existed, even if you never learn their name or even know it reached them. But every time, it has an impact - whether it opens a new perspective or a new door, shares a piece of knowledge, offers an image, entertainment, sometimes a business opportunity, or simply a way of expressing something whose meaning only you fully know.

Sharing is caring, they say. Consistency is key, is also said. Naming something, shaping it, letting it travel - it changes you, regardless of who receives it. And with time, you meet people along the way because of what you shared. You just don’t know yet who, where, or how that will come to fruition.

You don’t need to see the entire valley to trust it.

You don’t know who heard you.
You don’t know when, or how.

But somewhere along the valley, someone paused.
Someone felt less alone.

Someone recognised something familiar in the sound.
Someone felt the urge to connect.

You keep walking - not searching, not waiting -
trusting that it landed where it was meant to.

And you continue to do so.

One step after another -
learning, adapting, slowly moving forward.

*a pledge to not give up, and to keep sharing what feels right to share