The field trip.

 A field note from the Warm Shoulder Foundation

There was something incredibly soothing about this village from the moment I entered it.

The narrow lanes echoed with evening Gurbani playing through loudspeakers, and the whole atmosphere felt steeped in innocence, faith, and a kind of stillness that I haven’t felt in a very long time. It felt as if God had quietly opened a small window for me to walk through.

I met the Sarpanch and introduced myself, shared the work I do in the mental health space. He was with his father—simple, honest people whose eyes reflected trust. Within minutes, the father mentioned that he would like me to meet their daughter-in-law. There was no hesitation, no formality—just pure openness.

She came out and began her conversation with three words most women are too afraid to say out loud:

“I’m not fine.”

There was no mask, no performance. Just truth.

She told me she had constant headaches, that her hands sweat, that she struggles to get out of bed, and that she keeps travelling to the city again and again for medicines. She showed me her reports, and I saw that she was only prescribed anti-anxiety medication.

I explained gently that sadness and depression are not the same thing.

That having a bad day is not depression.

And that grief has its own rhythm.

Within minutes, she broke down.

She told me she had lost her father and grandparents—people she was extremely close to. Her father-in-law added quietly, “Her brothers are in Canada… her mother too.”

She felt alone. Unanchored. Emotionally homeless.

I told her, “You are sad. You are grieving. You are not depressed.”

The relief on her face was almost like someone had lifted a mountain off her chest. She cried again, but this time, it was softer. It was release.

I never asked her to stop her medicines. Instead, I said,

“Let’s treat routine as a medicine too.”

We spoke about gentle ways to reclaim her days—

a 10-minute walk for two weeks, increasing it later,

small habits, small breaths, tiny steps toward her own centre.

By the end, she hugged me so tightly that I felt the weight of every unsaid thing she had been carrying. Then she whispered, “Will you talk to my friend? My cousin? They also need help.”

And just like that, the next day, I found myself sitting with a group of six village women—bright, curious, intelligent. Their questions were honest.

“Is a constant headache depression?”

“If I don’t feel like getting out of bed someday, does that mean something is wrong with me?”

Among them was the sweetest presence—an 85-year-old lady who kept her head fully covered, and throughout our conversation her shawl never left her mouth and nose. She hardly spoke, yet she had the naughtiest smile in the entire group. Every few minutes, she’d look at me and say softly, “You should come more often… speak to me more often.” She said little, but her sweetness said everything.

On a lighter note, I told the group,

“The day you feel depressed, first ask yourself—did you eat your favourite food?”

We all burst out laughing. “That’s what we do every day!” they joked.

The conversation flowed with warmth, clarity, sisterhood.

At the end, we created a small WhatsApp group—

a circle of connection, a digital warm shoulder where they can reach out anytime.

It may look like a simple group.

But to me, it is grace.

A tiny seed of emotional literacy planted in a village that greeted me with Gurbani, honesty, and open hearts.

Everything that happened there was God’s arrangement, not mine.

And as I left the village, I realised—

sometimes you don’t go somewhere to teach.

You go there to witness.

To heal.

And to be reminded that human connection is still the most powerful medicine we have.

Makki ki roti and sarson ka saag added incredible flavour to the trip.

Gargi Arora.