When Ketu hits your 2nd, you envy their silence

When Ketu touches your 2nd house, your voice becomes a ghost. You try to speak, but the words feel hollow, misplaced, like echoes no one asked for. This house is meant to hold your voice, your values, your worth. But Ketu, the one without a head, doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t explain. It erases. So your voice becomes fog—present, but barely.

You start to notice how others talk. How they speak with certainty, how they take up space without apology. Their words land. Yours float, unfinished. You don’t envy their success. You envy their ease. The comfort they carry in silence. The way they don’t have to prove anything to be heard.

Sometimes you wonder if you were ever taught to speak. Maybe you learned to stay quiet to survive. Maybe no one ever asked what you really felt. So now, even when you want to say something, there’s a pause. A doubt. A slow unraveling. You start to admire the ones who say less, not more. The ones who sit in their silence like a throne. You want that kind of silence—chosen, not forced.

Ketu here can make you feel disconnected from what you believe you’re supposed to value. Money, voice, recognition—they feel out of reach or strangely unimportant. You drift between wanting them and wondering why you ever cared. And in that drift, you watch others stay grounded. Speaking clearly. Being understood. And a quiet ache forms. You wish it was that easy.

But Ketu doesn’t take things away without offering something deeper. Over time, you learn that stillness is not emptiness. That silence can be sacred. You find power in not always having the answers, in not rushing to fill space. You begin to listen—to yourself, and to the spaces between words.

Eventually, you stop needing to be heard the way others are. You begin to speak differently. Fewer words, but fuller ones. You find peace in not knowing, not proving, not performing. The envy fades, not because you forget it—but because you no longer feed it. What once felt like loss begins to feel like freedom. And your silence, once heavy, begins to feel like home.