They tell you how to stand.
How to march.
How to speak—only when necessary, and always with precision.
But what they don’t tell you is how heavy the silence can feel when you’re posted outside a palace window and someone behind the glass is crying. Or how your knees burn after six hours on duty, but you can’t move because protocol doesn’t care about muscle cramps.
I trained hard. I thought I was ready. Physically, maybe I was. But mentally?
No one prepares you for holding your breath while cameras flash inches from your face. For being called names by tourists who think you’re just a statue in costume. For standing in the rain while kids giggle and test your limits.
But the hardest thing, the part no training ever touches, is the humanity of it.
One day, while I was standing at my post in front of the palace, the sound of soft crying caught my attention. At first, I thought it was just the wind, or perhaps one of the tourists calling out. But as the minutes passed, it became clear that the sound was coming from inside the palace—right behind the window where I stood.
It wasn’t just any crying. It was quiet, muffled, almost… broken. I knew the palace inside and out. I knew what went on behind those walls—the ceremonies, the events, the hustle of daily life. But I had never heard anything like this. It made the air feel thick, as if it was charging with emotion.
I stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. My training had taught me to be stoic, to never show any emotion, to remain unmoved in the face of anything. But that cry… it shook me. It wasn’t just a sound. It was a plea, a deep sorrow, and I had no idea who was behind that window or why they were so upset.
I tried to focus, to distract myself, to stick to the rules. I kept my eyes forward, my stance firm. But every second felt like an eternity. The longer I stood there, the more the silence and the crying pressed on me.
Eventually, the sound stopped, leaving a hollow silence that seemed just as heavy. When the shift ended, I walked back to the barracks, my body aching from the long hours, but my mind was consumed by what I had heard.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the person behind that window—the one who had cried so quietly, as if they didn’t want anyone to hear. The whole thing gnawed at me, pulling at something deep inside.
The next day, when I was assigned to my post again, I found myself watching the windows more intently than usual. I kept wondering if that person would come back, if they would cry again, or if I would ever know who they were and what had caused them so much pain. But nothing happened. No sound. No movement. Just the same tourists, the same flash of cameras, the same people who saw me as nothing more than a figure to pose next to for a photo.
Weeks went by. I kept performing my duties, following orders, staying in character. But something had changed. That cry lingered in my mind like a question without an answer, and I couldn’t shake it off.
Then, one morning, I was approached by my commanding officer. He was a tall, stern man, someone who rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary. When he did, his words carried weight.
“You’re being reassigned,” he told me, his tone even. “You’ll be serving a different duty for a while. I expect you to maintain the same level of discipline, understand?”
I was confused. The assignment I had been given was for the long haul. I’d been trained for this—this role—so why was I being pulled from it? But I didn’t question him. I just nodded, as I had been taught.
My new duty was unexpected. I was assigned to the interior of the palace, tasked with overseeing some of the more sensitive areas. I had never been inside the royal chambers before, never been allowed to walk the halls where the true weight of the monarchy was felt. I had always been kept on the outside, a mere presence, a guard, a symbol.
But now, I was moving behind closed doors, into rooms I’d only ever imagined.
And that’s when I saw her.
It was the woman from the window. The one who had been crying. She was sitting by herself in one of the royal chambers, her back to me as I entered the room. She looked fragile, tired, as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders.
I was about to turn away, thinking it was not my place to intrude, but she spoke.
“I know who you are,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I froze. She wasn’t looking at me, but I could tell she knew exactly who I was. The guard. The one who had stood outside for hours, silent, unwavering, watching her.
“You heard me, didn’t you?” she asked, turning to face me at last.
I nodded, not sure what else to say.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly. “I’ve been carrying this burden for so long, and I didn’t think anyone would ever notice.”
It was then that I understood. This woman—she wasn’t just anyone. She was the queen. And that cry I had heard, the one that had haunted me, was a cry of someone who had been struggling, someone who was trapped by a role she didn’t ask for, a life she didn’t choose.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” I said, my words tentative, unsure of how to even approach someone like her. “But if you ever need someone to talk to… I’m here.”
For a moment, she seemed taken aback. I don’t think anyone had ever said that to her before—not in a way that wasn’t about her position or her title. She looked at me, not as a guard, not as someone who was there to serve, but as a person, a fellow human.
“I don’t have anyone I can trust,” she admitted quietly. “Everyone around me has an agenda. They all want something from me. But you… you’re just a soldier. You’re not here to take anything from me.”
Her words were like a dam breaking. The weight of her loneliness, the burden of her position, it all came rushing out in that moment. And suddenly, I realized that this woman, this queen, wasn’t some untouchable figure on a pedestal. She was just a person, struggling with the same fears, the same doubts, the same pain that anyone else might face.
We sat there for a while, neither of us speaking, just existing in the same room, two people who had never truly seen each other before. But in that moment, something shifted. The distance between us—the walls built by her title and my duty—seemed to disappear.
From that day forward, our relationship changed. I wasn’t just the guard anymore, and she wasn’t just the queen. We became two people, connecting in the quiet spaces where no one else was watching. It wasn’t about grand speeches or royal duties—it was about honesty, about vulnerability, and about being seen for who we truly were, beyond our roles.
It came in the form of a simple act. One day, she asked me to accompany her to a private gathering, something small and intimate. I was hesitant, knowing the rules, but she insisted. And it was there, surrounded by people who truly cared for her, that I realized something important.
In a world where everyone is so focused on status and power, the real strength comes from connection. From being able to see each other as people, not just titles.
She trusted me, and in turn, I found something I had been missing all along: a sense of purpose that went beyond duty.
Sometimes, the most meaningful connections happen when you least expect them. And when you allow yourself to see beyond titles and expectations, you might just find something truly rewarding.
If you’ve ever felt like you’re just playing a role, just going through the motions, remember this: the real reward comes when you start to show up as yourself, and when you let others do the same.
Share this post if you believe in the power of real human connections.
