Intuition, the Silent Voice
Not every important decision in my life began with a calculation. Sometimes there was first a feeling. An almost inaudible warning. Or, on the contrary, a peaceful confidence telling me I should explore a certain path. That is what I call intuition. To me, intuition is not a magical voice that is always right. Nor is it an excuse to ignore facts. I see it as a silent voice born from experience, love, and attentiveness.
Everything we have lived through leaves something within us. Conversations. Looks. Mistakes. Disappointments. Moments when we were right to trust someone. And moments when, looking back, we understood we should have been more careful. Our reason cannot constantly name every one of those impressions individually. Yet they are preserved somewhere within us. Sometimes they come together in a single feeling, faster than a complete line of reasoning. During my career, I experienced that often.
I would meet someone and almost immediately sense whether there was room for a sincere collaboration. I would listen to a new idea and notice something awakening within me. Or I would take part in a meeting where all the figures looked correct on paper, while an inner unease nevertheless urged me to ask one more question. Not every feeling proved correct. Nor did my intuition protect me from every bad decision. I trusted people who did not deserve that trust.
I believed in certain projects for too long. And I sometimes mistook hope for certainty. That is precisely why I believe intuition must always be accompanied by honest examination. We must listen to our feelings. But we must also look at the facts. Ask questions. Clarify agreements. And be prepared to revise our first impression when reality shows us something else. Intuition is not a judge pronouncing a final verdict. It is more like a faithful adviser who says softly:
"Look again."
"Listen more closely."
"There is something here you do not yet fully understand."
The best intuition, in my view, grows from paying attention to human beings. Someone who truly listens notices more than words alone. A silence at the wrong moment. A look that does not match what someone is saying. A voice that suddenly changes. Or, on the contrary, the calm and simplicity with which an honest person speaks. These are not proofs.
But they are signals that can invite us not to move forward too quickly. After Marco's death, intuition acquired another meaning for me too. There were moments when a memory suddenly appeared. A thought. A feeling of closeness. I cannot prove where such moments come from.
Perhaps it is my memory. Perhaps it is the love that continues to live within me. I do not need to find a definitive explanation for it. It is enough that those moments help me live with greater attention and humanity. Intuition must never distance us from others. If it has true value, it makes us more sensitive to what another person needs. It helps us notice that someone is hiding sorrow behind a smile.
That a colleague has not merely made a mistake, but may also be afraid. That a friend is not asking for advice, but for presence. And that sometimes a child needs above all to hear that he is loved, even when not everything succeeds. The older I became, the more I learned to appreciate silence. Not because silence automatically gives answers.
But because in silence, we hear more clearly what turmoil suppresses. Our fear. Our hope. Our conscience. And sometimes, that gentle inner question:
"Am I acting now out of love, or out of fear?"
Perhaps that is the most important question intuition can ask us. It does not always tell us which path is without risk. Most often, no such path exists. But it can help us feel which choice remains closest to the person we want to be. That is why I continued listening to that silent voice. Not blindly. Not without thinking.
But with the respect we owe everything life has taught us, often without words.