Soul-BLOG

We do it all the time without even noticing. You write a text, then backspace half of it so you don’t sound “too much.” You start a work email with a little personality, then edit it down until it’s flat and professional. You post a photo with a caption that truly expresses how you feel, then rewrite it three times so it won’t stir the pot. Even in casual conversations, you catch yourself softening what you actually wanted to say. And every time we do this, every time we edit ourselves down, the spark that made the words alive gets lost.

This piece is, in many ways, a continuation of "She’s Too Much" blog post. That first post was about the moment someone decides you take up more space than they think you should. It was about that label "too much" and how it gets used to compress someone who is living in their fullness. This post is about what often comes next: the slow, deliberate dismantling of your work, usually offered under the polite cover of “just giving feedback.” If "She’s Too Much" post was about the name people give you, this post is about the tactics they use to make sure you earn it in their eyes.

It was supposed to be a girls’ night — easy, light, the kind of night where you wear soft clothes and talk about life over wine. But somewhere between the snacks and the second glass, I said something real and honest. I didn’t raise my voice or cry; I wasn’t unravelling — just letting a quiet truth rise to the surface because that’s how it moves through me sometimes. And I felt it shift, the way one of them stared down into her glass like it suddenly had all the answers, while the other let out a sigh, the kind laced with subtle judgment, before saying, “You think too much. You feel too much. Just let it go.”And I did what I’ve learned to do in rooms that can’t meet me — I laughed it off, changed the subject, and kept my truth in silence instead. But I remember sitting in my car afterward, hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly, trying to drive home while my heartbeat echoed in the quiet.I didn’t say it out loud then, but I say it now: I wasn’t too much. I was just in a room where emotional depth felt like a threat instead of a gift.

There was this one afternoon, I don’t even remember the date, but I remember the smile.

Not the words you say. But the ones you choke on before they escape your mouth. The flicker of something in your eyes before you scroll past. The passive-aggressive silence.

I didn’t burn any bridges.

Brotherhood is sacred. So is what happens when it breaks.

There’s a shadow side to feminine energy that no one warned us about. They told us sisterhood would be soft, that women would hold each other, lift each other, speak light into each other’s wounds. But they didn’t tell us what happens when a woman feels threatened by your growth.Some betrayals happen with broken glass and screaming matches. Others come dressed in politeness, shared memories, and years of loyalty that made you believe they’d never leave.This is the second kind.She was a part of my life for a very long time. Long enough to know the names of people who hurt me. Long enough to see my kids grow and long enough to say “I love you” and mean it — or so I thought.

Let’s get one thing straight. This isn’t just spiritual fluff or aesthetic language.Divine Feminine and Divine Masculine are not roles you perform — they are energies you embody. They are ancient frequencies that live inside all of us, regardless of gender, and they shape how we love, lead, create, and connect. But here’s where it gets real. When those energies are out of balance, you feel it everywhere. In your relationships, your business, your body and your voice. So what do these energies look like?

Once upon a time — before she knew what betrayal felt like in the body, there was a boy who looked at her like she was made of something he wasn’t quite worthy of, but wanted anyway.She met him in the soft light of youth. Back when young love still felt like magic, and hearts hadn’t yet learned how to flinch. He wasn’t the kind of boy you’d expect. Not loud, not obvious. But quiet in that way that made you lean in closer. As if he had something sacred to say, but only to you.

The ones who don’t nod just to be agreeable or confuse silence with peace. I didn’t fit into the version of love that kept everything easy.

It wasn’t some dramatic moment. No storm. No slammed doors. Just a Thursday evening in the kitchen.He stood by the sink, rinsing a plate that had already been clean for a while. I was wiping down the counter, but mostly just pretending to look busy. The silence between us wasn’t angry; it was heavy. Like we both didn’t know what to say anymore.I looked over at him, and for a second, I saw the boy inside the man, the one who’d been holding it together for far too long. Tired, worn down and afraid to reach for me, in case I no longer reached back.

A quiet reckoning with my old habit of fixing too soon.--From Olga’s sacred Relationship Healings collection.

A quiet moment that changed nothing on the outside—but everything underneath. We weren’t fighting. But we weren’t flowing, either.

A reflection on presence, tension, and not rushing to resolution.--From Olga’s sacred "Relationship Healings" book collection.