Finding My Voice Without Words: What Shanghai Taught Me About Real Connection

After twenty years as a professional communicator, I thought I understood the power of connection. Then I traveled to Shanghai without speaking Chinese, and everything changed. This vibrant city taught me something I never expected to learn at 44: sometimes the most profound communication happens without words at all. What I discovered about non-verbal communication in Shanghai’s parks, streets, and subway cars transformed not just how I connect with others, but how I understand myself as a communicator in an increasingly global world.

Diana Silva Franco

I’ve been a professional communicator for over twenty years. I’ve built my career on the power of language, on finding the right words to connect, persuade, and inspire. But Shanghai stripped all of that away from me, and in doing so, gave me something far more valuable.

My first trip to this city was eight weeks ago. It was my first real adventure to a place where I knew nothing – not the language, not the culture, not even what songs were trending on Spotify. I was completely out of my element, and it was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

The Diana who arrived in Shanghai that first time spoke much less – my attempts to learn the ten most useful phrases in Chinese were pretty much useless. But she connected more. She smiled back at strangers on streets, in restaurants, in parks, and on subway cars. She paid attention to birdsong in the morning and the reflection of lights on the Huangpu River at night.

That’s when I discovered what I now call the “Shanghai Effect.” It’s what happens when your most precious tool – words – suddenly has little value in a place where others don’t understand them. But kindness and solidarity increase exponentially in value when you make an effort to connect and understand. Translation apps help, sure, but there’s something deeper that happens when you have to reach beyond language.

I came back because I needed to find that version of myself again. The one who connects from an almost mute authenticity, who feels and trusts her intuition.

On my second trip, I decided to explore Lu Xun Park on a Sunday. I’d heard it was beloved by locals, known for its cherry blossoms and for bringing crowds together among its trees and flowers. I couldn’t resist.

But when I arrived, it wasn’t the greenery that surprised me – it was the sounds. From every corner, different types of music seemed to emerge: wind instruments in the cool shadows, karaoke in the pavilions, choirs in the open spaces. For four hours, I was surrounded by music in its most diverse forms.

Without understanding the words, but watching the gestures, I realized that many of these amateur musicians meet every Sunday in the same place to share a harmonious afternoon. They bring their instruments, their thermoses full of tea, and their sheet music, for their own delight and that of others. Apparently, many of the pieces are popular songs, because families walking by join in the atmosphere, humming and clapping along.

Later, I was drawn to a beautiful voice coming from a pavilion where a woman and a man were performing a song, telling a story with their gestures and reactions rather than just singing. When they finished, I applauded enthusiastically, and her response was to hand me the microphone, saying loudly, “Karaoke!” How could I resist sharing a song in Spanish with them?

For three magical minutes, I sang and danced with the lady with the lovely voice, who mirrored my gestures as if she were my reflection. Like her performance, mine transcended the detail of language to create a completely human connection. Her companions, behind the camera, seemed to enjoy the music, strange and new as it was. I wish I could have explained more to them.

The smiles we exchanged as we said goodbye reminded me that words aren’t always necessary. An attentive look, hands in the air, and a knowing wink speak of approval and connection.

Then the choirs began to appear – some enormous, others with just a dozen people of all ages, singing in perfect coordination and harmony. From the banners they placed in the center, I could understand that these were also groups that meet there in the park every week. There are also musicians who accompany them and a crowd of curious people who sing along without losing the tune.

How is it that different groups of amateur singers manage to perform each song with such amazing skill? My conclusion, tinged with ignorance, is that they’re united by love of music. That same love makes them respect each piece and sing it as well as they possibly can. It’s not about sounding good as individuals, but about harmonizing as a collective.

So there I was, moved to tears, listening attentively to each of the four groups I found while walking, remembering why I love to sing: it’s a way of communicating to inspire that doesn’t require comprehension, but attention and connection.

This is what I’ve learned from Shanghai. For twenty years, I’ve taught others about the power of non-verbal communication. I’ve given talks and mentoring sessions about it. But I never truly understood its power until I had no choice but to rely on it completely. Not because I didn’t know how to apply it before, but because here in Shanghai, it became my guarantee of survival – and I think I’m even thriving.

Don’t misunderstand me: Shanghai is a beautiful, luminous, magical, and magnetic city. But my return has more to do with rediscovering that Diana who connects from an almost silent authenticity, who feels and trusts her intuition.

So I’m getting to know her and enjoying her company as I walk down Jiangning Road, looking for another delicious place to eat. I see her smiling at her neighbors and making faces at the little cats wandering through Changshou Park.

Some places bring out the best in us, which is why we want to return again and again. But maybe it’s not really the place – maybe it’s a choice we make or the person we allow ourselves to become while we’re there. Maybe the “Shanghai Effect” was always inside me, waiting for the right moment to emerge. Maybe I just needed to lose my words to find my voice.

---

About the Author

Diana Silva Franco is a multilingual storyteller and communication strategist who has spent nearly two decades building bridges between people and ideas across cultures. When not crafting stories that travel, she can be found exploring new cities or enjoying good conversation over a glass of Grenache.

---

---