What It Actually Feels Like to Be Spiritually Fluent and Personally Fragmented
Your inbox is full of thank-yous.
Your altar looks perfect, your feed glows. People think you’re calm, accomplished, spiritually grounded. You’ve done everything right—degrees, music, self-work, the rituals that make people trust you. On the outside, it looks like peace. But most nights, when the messages stop and the lights go out, your chest still hurts. You lie there scrolling through applause, trying to feel something real. You’ve built the kind of life other women dream about, and yet it feels like an empty room.
You can’t even enjoy your own stillness because it’s built on performance. Everything around you—the altar, the captions, the tone of your voice—is curated. You’ve helped women remember who they are, you’ve watched them cry in your presence, and you’ve gone home afterward feeling nothing. You tell yourself it’s humility or maturity, but it’s not. It’s distance. It’s the ache of realizing that every ritual that once opened you now barely touches the surface.
The cruel part is that you know exactly what’s happening. You’re not confused, you’re fluent. You know every language of healing—how to talk about boundaries, energy, archetypes, and trauma. You can explain why it hurts, but you can’t seem to feel your own voltage anymore. You walk into rooms glowing and they call you “the calm one,” “the healed one,” “the grounded one.” They don’t see that your stomach is tight, your shoulders tense, and your jaw locked from holding the mask in place. Half of you performs while the real you watches from the corner whispering, enough.
And when the applause comes, it doesn’t reach you. Each compliment lands on the version of you that performs well, not on the one who’s alive underneath. You scroll through praise with a tight throat, wondering if anyone has ever actually seen you. You meet other women like you—published, polished, spiritually fluent—and you can feel it in them too. Their voices glide, they have steady eyes , but their words float. They talk in circles to avoid saying the one thing that would break the room open. They’re beautiful and successful, but their voltage is gone. You recognize it because you’ve been living the same way: awake but unnamed.
In today’s world, you can trace your family patterns, name your wounds, even turn your healing into a business—and still feel empty inside. You can be fluent in healing and still be performing. That emptiness you feel after every “breakthrough”? That’s what it means to be fluent but fragmented. Your power still asks for permission. You adjust your tone to sound wise. You shapeshift to be chosen—by lovers, by clients, by the same systems that reward your polish and punish your truth.
I did the same. I called it branding. I called it strategy. I called it being “professional.” But really, it was obedience. I built success on a version of myself that couldn’t breathe, and when that act cracked, I thought I was failing. I wasn’t. I was finally meeting the part of me that didn’t care about keeping the room comfortable anymore. That’s when everything I’d built on performance began to die. Every version of me that sold well had to end before the real one could speak.
That’s where the real work begins. Not another workshop. Not another clarity session. Something sharper. Something that doesn’t translate you into marketable language—it cuts you open. That’s why I created the Obsidian Naming Rite. Not to fix or brand you, but to end the spell. To dig out the name you buried under years of applause and survival. The one that scares you because it’s too raw, too honest, too close to the truth.
If your rituals don’t move you anymore, if your captions sound smooth but feel empty, if your voice doesn’t land in your own chest when you speak, you’re unnamed. And that’s the beginning of clarity. You’ve outgrown your own script, and once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
