I had been called to Kashi (Varanasi, India) for over a year.
I have no idea why, but the pull was loud—impossible to ignore. Every time someone mentioned it, every reel I saw of the city, there was a constant whisper in my soul: You need to go there.
I never resisted it. I just waited for the stars to align. Deep down, I knew.
In the weeks leading up to the trip, my soul kept saying: You’ll not be the same person when you return.
And damn, wasn’t that the truth.
The air in Kashi was thick with something indescribable—like the land itself held ancient secrets, waiting for the right moment to unravel them. That night, there was an intense stillness in our Airbnb—the kind that settles right before something life-altering happens.
I could feel it in my bones—an ember burning inside me. A knot of energy that had been coiled tight for years.
We were sitting at the dining table—three women, three souls reclaiming our power in our own ways. The smell of home-cooked food lingered, and that dining space had become our sacred ground. The divine feminine energy was palpable.
Then the conversation took a turn.
As life-changing conversations often do—without warning, without a plan.
Our friend shared her story: three decades with a narcissistic husband, the pain of her marriage, the courage of her divorce, and the long road of healing.
I was in awe of her power. An old soul with the divine feminine coursing through her. I felt honored to witness her magnificent energy.
And then, out of nowhere, it hit me.
Like a punch straight to my gut.
“My coach once told me—you can’t say ‘XYZ happened to me’ and ‘I’m not a victim’ at the same time. Both can’t be true.”
Her words echoed, louder and heavier - until it was all I could hear.
Suddenly, memories came crashing in.
Tears welled up—uncontrollable, unexpected.
A dam inside me had cracked.
And then came the second blow.
“In whatever we experience, 97% of the responsibility falls on the perpetrator. But 3% falls on the adult version of ourselves.”
Crack.
The dam inside me shattered.
Years of memories, images, voices—rushing through me—unrelenting, raw.
I was bawling now, shaking, my body convulsing with the weight of emotions I didn’t even know I was carrying.
Guilt. Shame. Desperation.
Why didn’t I speak up?
Why didn’t I stand up for myself?
Why did no one stand up for me?
Would I have stopped him from hurting others if I had?
I crumbled. The knot in my gut finally exploded, and something inside me—something ancient—rose.
She looked me straight in the eyes.
“Shruthi, imagine you’re in 8th grade again. Who would you have told?”
The answer came from deep within my body. Like a loud gong.
“No one.”
If I thought I had cried before, this was a whole different universe of grief.
The kind that shakes your bones. It was primordial.
Ugly crying.
Snot leaking.
Body shivering.
Sobs tearing through me.
I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.
This was the moment. The release.
She hugged me—tight. Like a mother.
No words.
Just presence.
And I let it all go.
The realization hit like a thunderclap:
If no one fought for me back then, it’s time I fight for myself now.
Not from fear. But from power.
That night, I spoke.
For the first time.
I had conversations with my parents and my husband. About expectations. About disappointments. About how I thought they had let me down.
They freaked out—no doubt. But it didn’t matter. The words had to come out.
It was inevitable. Like a chain reaction.
Truth had found its way to my throat, and this time, I wasn’t going to choke it back.
The next three days were magical.
My mom said:
Mom: “I am with you completely.”
Me: “No matter what?”
Mom: “No matter what.”
My dad said:
“I’m sorry.”
No anger. No defense. Just those two words.
My husband?
He didn’t ask questions.
He just did what needed to be done to help me stand tall.
For the first time, I had deep, honest conversations with my family.
Without guilt.
Without shame.
Without desperation.
And damn, I needed them more than I had ever realized. I had no idea how much the child in me craved for their love in this particular way.
The memories kept unlocking.
Like unopened doors, I didn’t know existed.
And through it all, I could feel her.
Goddess Kali.
In my blood.
In my breath.
Aigiri Nandini (a Sanskrit Shloka) echoing in my body.
Her fire ran through my veins—powerful, fierce, untamed.
It was that day I truly transformed.
From a victim to a WARRIOR.
But here’s the thing:
To become a warrior, I had to first accept that I was a victim.
And that truth didn’t weaken me.
It freed me.
I finally met her—my 8th-grade self.
I saw her—numb, sitting alone in the library, her safe space.
For so long, she had been waiting for someone.
And for the first time, I sat beside her.
Holding her hand.
She didn’t move at first. For a long time.
Until she climbed onto my lap and broke.
Deep, heart-wrenching sobs.
And I stayed.
Fully present.
Loving her unconditionally.
The fire inside me shifted—From rage to love. From destruction to protection.
I was finally home.
Since that night, I’ve felt lighter.
Friends tell me I’m glowing.
And I believe them.
Because I feel the glow.
I feel the divine presence inside me—keeping me grounded, powerful, safe, and loved.
When I tap into Kali’s energy, it surges.
The fire in me transforms—
To love.
To worthiness.
To anger when needed.
To destruction when boundaries are crossed.
The voice inside me now says:
“No one can fuck with me anymore. I will not allow it.”
My energy feels massive. Expansive. Touching everything. The divine within me.
Not ego.
Just deep, still power.
This isn’t a story of advice.
It’s just my story. A story of reclaiming my power.
And if you’re reading this—maybe it’s time for you too.
Sit with your anger.
With your grief.
With your memories.
Don’t rush.
Don’t shame yourself.
Don’t run.
Your emotions aren’t here to consume you. They’re here to free you.
Because forgetting is a part of remembering.
And remembering leads you home.
You are safe.
You are powerful.
You are divine.
You are enough.
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