Ketu dasha? You detach before they disappoint

Ketu dasha feels like fading light. Not sudden, but slow and quiet. You don’t run. You just drift. One day you’re present, the next—gone. Not because you stopped caring. But because caring felt too heavy. You detach before they disappoint. You leave before the silence gets loud. It isn’t coldness. It’s survival in soft form. You learn to disappear gently, without sound.

People ask what changed. You struggle to answer. How do you explain a kind of stillness that lives beneath the skin? Ketu doesn’t shout. It whispers. It pulls you away from what once felt like everything. Friends, lovers, dreams—they all blur. You watch them go, and don’t chase. Not because you don’t feel. But because you feel too much. The ache of pretending weighs more than the ache of solitude.

This is the dasha of undoing. Things fall apart without a crash. They simply dissolve. You stop craving what once defined you. Your voice grows quieter. Your steps, lighter. You want peace, not passion. Space, not noise. Love becomes a quiet wish, not a loud demand. You turn inward, and in that turning, lose the need to be seen.

Ketu brings detachment, but not emptiness. It brings clarity through absence. It asks you to let go, not to punish—but to free. To release what was never truly yours. The things that leave now are not losses. They’re shadows falling away. The self you clung to was only a shell. And now, stripped bare, you begin again—not louder, but truer.

If you’re walking through Ketu, walk slowly. Don’t rush to rebuild. Let the stillness speak. Let what’s fading go without pulling it back. Trust that what remains is meant to stay. You’re not broken. You’re becoming light. Not everyone will understand your quiet. But some will. And in their presence, you’ll know—what Ketu took, it took with purpose. What it left behind is you.