There is a kind of listening that has never stopped.
Not the listening you do when someone is speaking. Not the listening you perform in a meeting, nodding at the right intervals, holding eye contact like a posture. The other one. The one underneath.
It has been listening since before you had language for it — since you were small enough to feel a room change before anyone said why, since you learned to read the weather in a parent’s silence, since some part of you decided that survival meant staying tuned to frequencies most people stopped noticing. You didn’t choose this listening. It was given to you, the way a hand is given its grip before anyone teaches it to hold something.
And here is what no one tells you: it never went quiet. Even in the years you spent proving, achieving, managing, performing — the years the noise got loud enough that you forgot you were still tuned to anything — it was still there, underneath, taking it all down. Waiting.
This is not a metaphor for intuition, though it includes that. This is closer to inheritance. The body remembers what it has been told to forget. And the body, more than the mind, knows when something is true.
What gets called “vision” — the thing people chase, build vision boards for, set goals toward — is so often mistaken for a destination. Something you arrive at, after enough strategy, enough discipline, enough force of will. But vision was never built that way. Vision is not what you produce when you finally think hard enough. Vision is what becomes audible when the listening that never stopped is finally given room to be heard.
You have likely sensed this already, somewhere you haven’t said out loud. A knowing that arrived faster than your reasoning could keep up — a sentence that wrote itself before you understood why your hand kept moving. A “no” that came from somewhere lower than your thoughts. A “yes” that didn’t make sense on paper and made complete sense in your chest. That was the listening. That has always been the listening.
So perhaps the question this season isn’t how do I find my vision. Perhaps it’s quieter than that, and more honest: what have I already heard, that I haven’t yet let myself trust?
There is no instruction at the end of this. No five-step framework for tuning back in. Some things are not meant to be managed into being — they are meant to be noticed, slowly, the way you notice a sound has been present the whole time only once it stops being background.
The listening was never gone.
It is only waiting to be believed.
Pam