Left Shoulder Voice

Social media was blasting last night that Trump had died.
It was a frenzy—the kind the media loves, feeding on fear, stirring worry like a spoon in a pot, because a scared people are easier to control. Rumors spread faster than truth, and weary hearts soak them up until we feel sick.

But beneath the noise, there is another story.

J.D. Vance stands beside Trump now, and the world squints, wondering what it means. Many point fingers at his wife, Usha, accusing her of silence. They call her complicit, cowardly, or worse. They cannot see what silence really is sometimes: a chore, a calling, a steady work done not for headlines but for the hidden shaping of a man’s heart.

Vance has spoken harshly of divorce, as though it is weakness. That stance may sound rigid, but it also shows his tether: he has no intention of leaving her. And she, bound by neither fear nor resignation, remains rooted in her own inheritance. Usha carries Hindu teachings that whisper of the feminine divine—Shakti, the balance of creation—and of the truth that all humanity is one family.

So while he hammers policies with a heavy hand, she sits on his left shoulder, unseen but steady. He hears her without words. The world may not, but he does. He carries her heartbeat inside him, even when his voice thunders in public.

They neither one liked Trump in the beginning. They saw, as many of us did, the bluster and the danger. But they also saw a door to power swing wide, and they stepped through it together. If Vance takes the office someday, it will not be only his hand guiding the pen. Her presence, silent and constant, will shape the words before they’re ever written.

This is the balm: that within even the hardest halls of power, the feminine divine still breathes. Not in shouting, not in spectacle, but in a wife’s quiet strength, in a shoulder leaned upon, in the knowing that humanity is one.

And here’s where my own heart comes in. I carry no party card, no red or blue flag stitched to my name. Politics has never been my belonging. Labels feel like cages, and I was born to breathe free. What I do carry is a listening heart, one that leans close to the tender voice beneath all the noise—the voice that says love one another.

It’s the same whisper I sense in Usha’s silence, the same steady pulse I trust in my own bones. Not shouting, not scaring, not dividing—but love as a balm. Love as correction. Love as shield.

Even Jesus, who saw through both empire and temple, spoke it plain: “By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Not by who you voted for, not by the slogans on your lips, but by the tenderness you dare to show.

That’s where I stand. Not in frenzy, not in fear, but in love—the kind that heals, steadies, and reminds us all that we belong to one another.