listening for mutuality
Listen to see when you're met.
Pay attention to where someone meets you. Listen carefully to how the universe responds to your efforts.
Desires are natural, but they also carry pain. When we want something that doesn’t manifest, we feel the sting:
A friendship. A love. A job. A move.
It hurts to not be met. We call that rejection.
When I play music, I listen more than I play. I hear what the other musicians are doing. If someone’s in the high register, I ground it with the low. If a line excites me, I echo it back.
The question is: are they listening too? Do they hear my bid for connection? Do they look back with a smile?
That’s mutuality. It’s knowing your worth and remembering that rejection isn’t an attack—it’s a misalignment. And misalignment is impersonal.
Valuing mutuality is liberating. It ends the endless chase:
- the unanswered texts,
- the polite, half-hearted date reschedules,
- the job interview that never calls back.
These are soft rejections. Most people don’t want to hurt others, so they leave the signal fuzzy.
The key is to notice those signals and not take them personally. To live by this ethos: I only lean into those who lean in too.
Music teaches me this over and over.
I once played sitar at a festival ceremony, joined by singers. It was a beautiful jam, until I began slowing the piece, guiding it toward an ending. I played the final note softly—only for one singer to burst back in, clapping and singing, oblivious to the close.
It was jarring. They never looked at me, never listened for the ending. They were in their own world. Supported by the whole, but not part of it.
Would I jam again with them? Unlikely. Because I seek mutuality. I want to play with people who listen—who are as excited to meet me as I am to meet them.
The trap I fall into is asking: Did I do enough? Did I make my interest clear? Did they even notice?
But the truth is, mutuality requires both sides. It means trusting others can take care of themselves—catch the cues, carry their part, show their interest.
That’s not always easy, especially if you grew up in a reverse-parenting dynamic. I did. My parents’ finances were unstable, scarcity was constant, and I learned to carry weight that wasn’t mine. I became the golden child, careful never to add burden.
That conditioning can bleed into adulthood—over-explaining, over-showing, over-proving your care. Hoping someone notices the bid for connection.
The shift is to claim mutuality. To expect it. To make it a standard.
So listen to how people hear your song.
Do they sing along—or look away?
Leave those who don’t take the bid. Find the ones who love your song.
