Soul-BLOG

Every morning, she’d look up from her cereal, and there she was standing behind the glass. She never aged and never moved away from the glass. Sometimes, the mother would knock on the glass loudly, but the child barely noticed. She would pause and feel a strange sensation in her chest, but then return to whatever she was doing. Over time, the child grew, made many mistakes and trusted the wrong people. Touched the stove, fell too hard, and got bruised. The mother knocked harder and tried to signal through gestures, but the girl felt anxiety rise and didn't understand why.One day, in her late thirties, the woman (no longer a child) was brushing her teeth when she caught the mother’s eyes in the reflection. They stared at each other, and for the first time, the woman opened the window. The mother didn’t speak right away; she didn’t need to. She just stepped forward, wrapped her arms around the woman, and finally held her.

I used to think dismissive comments were a form of constructive criticism. When someone cut me off, brushed off an idea, or made a joke out of something I cared about, I assumed I had explained it badly. I thought I needed to be clearer, more confident, or less affected by people’s reactions.For a long time, I believed I needed to “grow a backbone.” If someone challenged me directly, I told myself they were being honest, and I was being too emotional. If someone dismissed how I felt, I convinced myself I was making a big deal out of nothing. I took their reactions as proof that I needed to adjust, soften, or communicate differently. Looking back, I can see how much effort went into trying to make myself easier to accept. It felt simpler to blame myself than to believe that other people just didn’t want to listen. I thought being strong meant staying quiet and letting things roll off my back, even when it left me feeling unseen.Eventually, I started noticing how quickly some people shut down a conversation without really hearing it. I realized they weren’t offering thoughtful feedback. They were just reacting in the fastest way possible, without thinking about how their words landed. It wasn’t honesty, it was habit. That changed how I understood dismissal. It wasn’t guidance, and it wasn’t a sign that I was weak or dramatic. It was usually a sign that the other person wasn’t interested in meeting me where I was. Most people speak first and think later. They care more about ending a conversation than listening to it.Once I saw that, I stopped treating dismissal as something I had to fix in myself. I wasn’t weak for noticing how it felt, and I wasn’t overreacting. I was simply aware of the tension it created. Dismissal often has nothing to do with how good an idea is or how real a feeling is. It usually comes down to a lack of curiosity or care on the other side. And once I understood that, I stopped taking it personally and stopped absorbing it like it was my responsibility.

It’s been a month since I last wrote here. Not because I ran out of things to say, but because life, in its unrelenting way, asked me to be in two places at once.Medical issues in the family pulled me in one direction, business and home life in another. There were days I felt like a hundred threads stretched between people I love, trying to hold everything together with my bare hands.If you’ve ever been that woman - the one managing the invisible load, remembering the appointments, sensing the emotions before they’re spoken, keeping the rhythm of everyone’s life steady while yours falters quietly in the background...I see you.

Some days it doesn’t feel like survival; it feels like humiliation. You wake up already heavy, already behind. The mirror shows you swollen eyes, and the voice inside says “failure” before you’ve even had a chance to breathe.Everyone around you seems to be running ahead — posting their wins, sharing their pictures, living their normal, while you’re still sitting at the bottom of the day, wondering how you’ll get through the next hour.This post is for you. The ones who can’t hold on.I want to say this out loud because I don’t hear it enough: holding on is hard. Sometimes impossibly hard. And if you’re here, reading this, you’re already doing it better than you think.

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.

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.