She Tells

‘You’re so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.”—Ernest Hemingway
When someone calls you strong it can sound like a compliment, but feel like a curse. I’ve been called a trooper. A powerhouse. A champ. One family member refers to me as a spiritual Timex (Remember those ads? “Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.") I’m so persistently encouraging of bravery and chance-taking and wonder hunting that people don’t hear the sniffles, the long sighs, the jagged ugly cries. They think I live a charmed life, moving from happiness to happiness, success to success.

So wrong.

Even though I share regularly online and in person about my vulnerability, anxiety and struggles with suffering, that part of me is often overlooked or misunderstood. It’s quieter than all the daring adventure, but it’s there. And when I do share, people often consider me a lighthouse. I’m the resilient one. The capable one. Choosing to focus on the light. Just because someone runs a bold race doesn’t mean they don’t walk long acres of doubt.

When one chooses bravery, it doest mean they don’t struggle with fear, anxiety, overwhelm. Intense self-reliance and resilience can be the painful result of emotional abandonment or neglect. When no one ever shows up to help or support, nurture or relieve, one must make a choice what to become. I became a lighthouse.

I cry easily and readily in front of people, though if you are the cause of my hurt, I’ll likely downplay it so as not to make you feel bad. I’m no longer proud of this. No longer think of my ability to mask pain as a badge of honor. It’s a trauma response. Most certainly learned early as a means of keeping myself valuable to the the few people raising me—especially because they did not share their tears, though some could easily share their anger with a belt or a paddle.

This silent shame, it claimed me early.

I’m five years old. My pet rabbit Bun Bun has died. I sneak off to my room. Even with the door shut I don’t feel safe to cry. I open the closet door and bury myself back behind the dresses and coats. There, in the pitch black darkness, the sleeves of my favorite sweater catch my tears and muffle my sobs.

It’s my 15th birthday. Friends have gathered. There’s a pink cake with frosty roses. A surprise guest—a girl I haven’t seen in years —comes into the living room and we both squeal and run to hug each other. Her shoulder snags my pinky fingernail til it bends all the way back. The pain shrieks through me instantly. I announce to the room, “I gotta pee” and rush to the bathroom to cry. Sob. The water running over my finger ’til there is no blood and no more blotchy proof on my face that I have been wounded.

I’m 19 and the guy I’m dating is on my childhood bed. It’s midafternoon and my parents aren’t home. I’m still a virgin, and as a recovering Baptist, very conservative anything more than making out. When kissing turns to bl***ob, my first, I’m caught between wonder and terror. It’s over so fast. There is no talking. But there’s also no reach for me, towards exploration or pleasure or release, to bring me into the same euphoric state that he’s in. As the seconds tick by I realize I’ve been seduced into a giveaway rather than a mutual exchange. I love this guy, so it hurts. Bad. I get up quietly, careful he can’t see my face which is already leaking. I go to the bathroom and cry, not coming out until all traces of my agony are invisible.

For most of my life, the dark closet has been the only safe place for my pain. If I’ve processed it and crossed over the shame sludge, I’ll share openly, vulnerably, even publicly. But if the pain is real time, it’s almost always silent, even with those closest to me. Only in recent years has that begun to shift, due to the deep dives I’ve made into trauma therapy and CPTSD study. Apprenticeship to the dark underbelly of childhood pain has allowed me to unwind the traumatic neural pathways that kept me in shame and silence during real time suffering.

The relationship between lighthouse resilience and dark closet vulnerability? I call it the dragon butterfly effect.

There was this guy, years before Silas, who flirted outrageously with me online and then invited me to a late lunch at a steakhouse outside of Atlanta. It was a stormy day. The thunder kept interrupting our conversation. He was a strapping fellow, biceps bigger than my beer mug. The dazzling smile and pretty-boy eyes told me he was used to getting what he wanted. I liked it though, because he was confident without being cocky, a rare find.

We enjoyed a flirty but deep, rich, philosophical three-hour meal, which ended in his propositioning me to a hotel. “Oh no, sorry. Before I share my body I need to share heart space first. S*x for me isn’t a plaything. You’re better off with others for that. At this point in my life, I want play accompanied by meaningful exchange, deep respect and mutual emotional investment.”

He didn’t take no easily. After my third definitive “no” and his honest reply that he didn’t want anything serious for now, he cocked his head and considered me quietly. A beat, two, three. “You’re a conundrum. You’re a dragon, all hot fire and ferocity. But inside, you’re a butterfly. Tender, delicate, vulnerable. Not too many guys can deal with that.”

“Then I’ll wait for the one who can.”

I drove down the rain-pelted highway thinking I’d dodged a bullet. I was proud of myself for not responding to his glorious and compelling charms. I’d learned a thing or two since paralysis, date r**e and multiple mismatched dating heartaches.

But as the windshield wipers swished the downpour left right left, I searched the brooding skies for wings, wondering how many creatures might be trying to make their way through the storm. And how many lightning bolt women shelter a heart made of butterfly wings.

No matter what you’re going through today, you are allowed to be both fierce and tender. Your bravery is needed in this world, as we struggle to bring change to a fractured community. But your tenderness and vulnerability is also necessary, as it allows us to recognize ourselves in the mirror of your fragility.
We are tender fragile creatures, and when we feel our shame, but dare to break silence to share imperfectly, we grow powerful wings and strong, capable teeth.

Both are necessary. Both belong. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Especially yourself.
- Angi Sullins

When a woman heals, she taps into a profound strength, transforming her struggles into powerful lessons. By reflecting on her experiences, finding growth in them, and embracing resilience, she turns pain into her superpower—wisdom and empowerment. Her healing journey not only renews her spirit but also inspires those around her, proving just how powerful self-love and determination can be.

To every woman on this journey, know that you are loved and worthy. You are not defined by your past, nor by the weight of the expectations placed upon you. You are here to live, to thrive, and to honor the divine energy that resides within you.

So, dear woman, don’t let the burdens of others weigh you down. You are not responsible for carrying their pain or fixing what is broken in them. Your first responsibility is your own well-being. You must reclaim the right to nurture yourself, to fill your cup before pouring into others.

Too often, women are conditioned to believe that self-care is selfish. That if they prioritize themselves, they are neglecting their duties. But this is a lie that has kept women trapped in exhaustion for centuries. You must break free from this belief. You deserve to be nourished, to rest, to heal, and to be cherished—first by yourself and then by the world around you.

If you are hungry, how can you feed others? If your spirit is empty, how can you give love? You are not meant to run on empty. You are meant to overflow with abundance, with joy, with life. And that begins with giving yourself the love and care you so freely give to others.

It is your birthright to embrace your power, to heal without guilt, and to rise beyond limitations. When you begin to nurture yourself, you align with the divine feminine energy that has existed within women for generations. This energy is sacred, it is untamed, and it is unstoppable.

I believe it is my soul’s purpose to guide men in understanding women and to help women awaken to their ancient power. Women have carried the wisdom of the divine for centuries, yet so many have forgotten. The time has come to remember.

In India, we recognize the ten Mahavidyas—Kali, Tara, Tripura Sundari, Bhuvaneshwari, Bhairavi, Chhinnamasta, Dhumavati, Bagalamukhi, Matangi, and Kamalatmika. These ten divine manifestations of the Goddess represent the many facets of feminine power. They are not just deities to be worshipped; they are energies to be embodied.

Kali teaches fearlessness and destruction of the old self. Tara grants guidance and protection. Tripura Sundari reveals beauty and wisdom. Bhuvaneshwari expands our consciousness. Bhairavi ignites fierce devotion. Chhinnamasta teaches sacrifice and transformation. Dhumavati embodies the wisdom of solitude. Bagalamukhi represents control over negativity. Matangi awakens creativity, and Kamalatmika brings prosperity and abundance.

Every woman carries aspects of these goddesses within her. She is both the nurturer and the warrior, the creator and the destroyer, the healer and the guide. When she embraces these energies, she unlocks her full potential.

This is your time, dear woman. The world is shifting, and the divine mother is calling you to step into your power. She is guiding you to break free from the chains of conditioning and to reclaim your divine inheritance.

When the divine mother allows me, I will write in depth about each of these ten forms so that you may understand their essence and how they live within you. Until then, remember—your journey is sacred, your voice matters, and your presence is a gift to this world.

- Abhikesh