AI Health Insights

  By Dr. Marco V. Benavides Sánchez. I always believed silence was a form of rest, a truce amidst the noise. But now I understand it as a mirror. One that does not distort, does not forgive, that shows what we avoid looking at. In that reflection, I have seen my face without masks, my fears crouching in the corners of my mouth, my guilt wrapping around my throat like smoke.    Silence does not come alone. It brings with it thoughts that were asleep—questions I avoided, words I did not say, emotions poorly folded in the drawer of my soul. It appears just when I most crave noise, when the television, music, and distant voices are not enough to drown out what lives within me.    Sometimes, I look out the window in search of a distant sound—a dog barking, an engine passing, a leaf crunching. And I cling to that small echo as if it were a rope saving me from falling into the abyss of myself. Because silence, when prolonged, can turn into vertigo. And looking ...

  By Dr. Marco V. Benavides Sánchez. At five years old, a summer was eternal. The days were so long they seemed to have no border. Time glided leisurely between puddles, bicycles, and hands damp with fruit. There was no rush, because everything that mattered was within reach of the instant: a new game, an ant crossing the ground, a cloud shaped like a dragon. Time was elastic, generous, almost motionless. And one didn't know it, but one lived in a country without clocks. At forty, however, a summer is a sigh between obligations. It arrives without warning and leaves in a hurry. Between work, commitments, pending emails, the day's surgery, reports due, and the silences one hasn't yet learned to listen to, the days shrink. The sun shines through the window, but it doesn't warm. The to-do list takes over contemplation. The notion of time is measured in workweeks, not aimless afternoons. And one begins to suspect that clocks don't just tell time: they also steal it from...

  By Dr. Marco V. Benavides Sánchez. In a discreet corner of the vastness of Peru, in a humble parish where faith mingled with the dust of the roads, there was a priest whose presence was so quiet that it seemed even the wind would stop to listen. With serene eyes and a voice that was more of a whisper than a proclamation, this man—American by birth, but Peruvian in soul and spirit—dedicated himself to the souls who, like him, sought meaning and comfort in difficult days. Father Michael, who among his congregation called himself Miguel, did not seek greatness or titles. His mission was simple: to serve. Born in the suburbs of a city in the American Midwest, he had grown up in an ordinary family, one among many. However, from a young age, his heart beat with a restlessness that knew no borders. It was this restlessness that, upon completing his Master's degree in Divinity, led him to cross seas and mountains to reach Peru, a country that welcomed him with its warm Andean embrace...