They teach you the rules—how to stand, how to march, how to speak only when necessary and always with precision.
What they don’t prepare you for is the weight of silence when you’re stationed outside a palace window, and someone inside is crying. Or how your legs ache after hours of standing still, but protocol doesn’t care about discomfort.
I trained hard and thought I was ready. Physically, maybe I was. But mentally? No one told me how to handle the moments that would test my humanity.
One day, while at my post in front of the palace, I heard quiet crying. At first, I thought it was just the wind or a tourist calling out, but as time passed, it became clear the sound was coming from inside the palace, right behind the window where I stood.
It wasn’t just any crying. It was soft, muffled, almost broken. The kind of sound that fills the air with an unspoken pain. I knew the palace well—its ceremonies, its events, its rhythm. But I had never heard anything like this before. It was like the very air was heavy with sorrow.
I stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. My training had drilled into me that I must remain stoic, unshaken by anything. But that cry shook me. It wasn’t just noise—it was a plea, a deep sorrow that I couldn’t ignore.
I tried to focus, to stay in my role, but the sound kept pulling at me, making every second feel unbearable.
Eventually, the crying stopped, leaving a silence that felt just as heavy. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The sound of that cry kept echoing in my mind, gnawing at me. I had to know who it was. I needed to understand.
The next day, I stood at my post again, watching the windows, wondering if that person would return, if the crying would come back. But nothing happened. Just tourists, cameras, the same routine. Yet, that cry lingered in my thoughts.
Weeks went by, but that feeling didn’t leave me. And then, one day, my commanding officer pulled me aside and told me I was being reassigned. I was confused—my post had been long-term, I had trained for it—but I didn’t question his orders.
My new assignment took me inside the palace, to areas I had never been allowed to see before. And that’s when I saw her—the woman from the window.
She was sitting alone, her back turned to me, but as I entered the room, she spoke.
“I know who you are,” she said, her voice soft and fragile.
I froze. She knew exactly who I was—the guard who had stood outside, watching, while she cried.
“You heard me, didn’t you?” she asked, turning to face me.
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she continued, her voice breaking. “I’ve been carrying this burden for so long, and I didn’t think anyone would ever notice.”
In that moment, I realized—this woman wasn’t just anyone. She was the queen. And that cry I had heard wasn’t just a moment of weakness; it was the cry of someone trapped in a role they never asked for, weighed down by a life they didn’t choose.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” I said quietly. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
Her eyes softened, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to say that to her. “I don’t have anyone I can trust,” she whispered. “Everyone around me wants something. But you… you’re just a soldier. You’re not here to take anything from me.”
That moment broke something inside her. Her loneliness, her burdens—they poured out. I realized that the queen wasn’t just a symbol of power. She was a person, struggling with fears, doubts, and pain, just like anyone else.
We sat in silence, two people who had never truly seen each other until that moment. The walls between us—her title, my duty—seemed to disappear.
From then on, our relationship changed. I wasn’t just a guard, and she wasn’t just a queen. We saw each other as people, beyond our roles. There was no pretense, no obligation—just a quiet connection.
One day, she invited me to a small, private gathering. I hesitated, but she insisted. And in that moment, surrounded by those who truly cared for her, I realized that in a world obsessed with titles and power, true strength comes from human connection. From being seen, not for what you do, but for who you are.
She trusted me, and in return, I found a sense of purpose beyond my duty.
Sometimes, the most meaningful connections happen when you least expect them. When you stop playing a role and start showing up as yourself, you might just find something truly rewarding.
If you’ve ever felt like you’re just going through the motions, remember this: the real reward comes when you start showing up as your true self, and allow others to do the same.