E = mc² : The Theory of Emotional Relativity

If Einstein had written about the heart, his famous equation might have been E = mc²: where Emotion is equal to the Motion of our lives, multiplied by the square of our Choices—a formula for the sheer energy of feeling, Emotion = Motion × Choice²

Because honestly, isn’t that how it all works? We move, we choose, and somewhere between the two, our hearts begin their own quiet chemistry experiments. Before we know it, the reaction is complete, and emotions are simply… everywhere.

As a child, my motions were mostly around chasing butterflies, climbing trees, and trying not to get caught stealing snacks from my mom’s secret cupboard in the kitchen. The choice was always simple — fun over caution. The emotion? One minute, we were debating about what type of hide and seek we would play; the next, we were crying over who borrowed whose pencil (and didn’t return it).

College took things up a notch. The motion became bunking lectures, sprinting to the canteen, and pretending to understand everything while nothing really entered the head. The choices were far less sensible, and the emotions — well, let’s say there was enough drama to fuel a soap opera. One minute we were planning how to extend the deadline for assignments, and the next we were discussing what all happened (and not) during the class tour!

Adulthood was a different equation. Motion now involved chasing project deadlines, toddlers, and groceries — sometimes all at once. The choices were outsourced long before I knew it. Emotions multiplied faster than Einstein’s formula could handle.

Now, with the kids grown and many voices living softly in memory, motion has slowed, but the choices feel deeper. A cup of tea, a good book, a quiet walk, or finally catching up with old friends — they all generate their own gentle kind of energy. I call it spiritual physics, the kind that doesn’t need proof, just peace.

Recently, my theory faced its ultimate test. For me, it became a personal reclamation of the law of motion: walking without support after my knee surgery. The memory of pain and fear clung stubbornly to me. Letting go of that memory—the pain from my historical fall—was the hardest part, something no one seemed to truly understand. People expect pain tolerance to be directly proportional to one’s age—my foot!

I couldn’t just think my way out of this. Slowly, I realized the harsh truth that my walker (Vasu)—my so-called buddy—couldn’t hold me back forever. Whenever I hesitated, it made me realize I needed to keep moving forward.

This stage of healing was brutal; every fear was on full display, while pain was hidden inside. I was clueless about how to express them with my limited vocabulary. After all, pain and fear are intangible; words can only ever capture a shadow of them.

As my walker stopped letting me lean so heavily, I somehow decided to move anyway—legs trembling, heart screaming, and my brain desperately trying to recall how on earth I used to walk. My body was in fight or flight mode; I chose to fight for a million reasons, each one a silent promise I had made to myself.

I knew it could at most cause another fall, but I chose to move with the flow and surrender to the universe. Yes, I did come out of the mental block (as people call it fondly), and from that quiet place of peace, I could look back with clear eyes.

Somewhere between motion and choice, I found emotion — and maybe, myself. Even if my buddy complains a little, I’m grateful for every step it pushed me to take. I couldn’t have asked for a better spirit.

So yes, dear Einstein, you were right with E = mc², but, with all due respect, in my own way: Emotion = Motion × Choice²

And here’s the corollary scribbled in the margins of Einstein’s notes (probably by me):

Move, choose, stumble if you must—and be willing to fall.

P.S. And if sometimes that emotion sneaks out with a tear or two — well, that’s just energy taking a sentimental detour. It happens… 🙂