The Savior of Her Own Soul

She wakes up every day with a weight pressed against her chest—palpitations, quickened breath, a restlessness that never leaves. It feels as though something heavy and unsettling is always about to happen, though she cannot name what. But she cannot stay still. She wanders, paces, moves endlessly, as if her body is trying to release what her heart and mind can no longer carry.

Why am I so anxious all the time? She wondered.

Is it because, after 12 years, she is finally facing the unveiling of her husband’s true colors? For 12 years, she believed in the version of him he carefully crafted—a version she loved, defended, and chose against all odds. But now, she cannot deny what she sees: glimpses of manipulation, belittling words, betrayals, toxicity, narcissism, and cold dismissals that pierce deeper than any wound. Years ago, she chose him, believing she was choosing happiness and peace. Instead, it hurt her—like holding a restless cactus that pricked her again and again. Still, she convinced herself: inside that thorny shell, there lies a softer truth. A nurturing, comforting, loving man, hidden by the harshness of his life. She believed if she endured the thorns long enough, she would one day find that tenderness. But she was wrong. He never softened. He only placed velvet over his thorns. What seemed gentle was only a disguise—hiding his reality.

Sometimes she convinced herself he has simply grown weary, burdened by responsibilities that smothered the tenderness he once showed. Other times, she wonders if someone poisoned his heart against her. Or maybe his love still exists, but is buried too deep beneath stress and indifference.

But then she asks herself—why is this sharpness, this cruelty, only reserved for her? Why is she the one carrying the weight of neglect, humiliation, and dismissal?

Perhaps her anxiety is the cry of her soul, warning her that she cannot keep erasing herself to keep someone else comfortable. Perhaps it is the grief of realizing that she has spent 12 long years trying to prove wrongs as rights—12 years of shrinking, silencing, sacrificing her own desires and dreams. She has been afraid of loneliness. Sometimes the pain comes quietly. Tears roll down her face without permission, leaving her startled. “Why am I crying? I am not even hurt right now…” But maybe these tears are not about now. Maybe they are echoes— decades of silent grief, spilling at last. She realized she avoided conflict to keep peace.

She blended in, even in spaces where her soul did not belong. She silenced her intuition, and worst of all, she stopped trusting herself. Every time the thought of leaving brushed against her, the only voices she

heard were those pointing cruel fingers: “It was your choice.”

“We warned you, and you didn’t listen.”

“You brought shame before by marrying him , and now you’ll bring it again by leaving him.” “

May you never have been born. May we erase you from our lives.”

But if I truly belonged to them, would they have been blind to my pain? Would they not have noticed when my laughter vanished, when the light inside me dimmed? How are they any different from my partner, who only cherishes the obedient, smiling version of me—never daring to see the truth of who I am? So she is crying now because now

she is exhausted.

Exhausted from neglect.

Exhausted from humiliation.

Exhausted from a love that feels so achingly one-sided.

Exhausted from carrying the weight of her wrong decision since a decade

Something within her shakes her vigorously now, awake, you must awake now .whispers fiercely: “Wake up, wake up.”

Why now, why after all these years?

May be the tears were not weakness; they were release. The language of her soul, speaking what her mouth never dared. They remind her that scars remain, even when she pretends the wounds have healed. Each tear is not a curse—it is cleansing. Her own healing rain. or maybe because, in the ruins of this pain, she has discovered that she never truly lost herself. Instead, she unearthed parts of herself she didn’t know—longings for a deeper connection with the Almighty, clarity about her own weaknesses, and a truth that terrifies and liberates her at once.

And her children—they deserve that version of her as well. A mother who is present in love, not merely existing in pain. She already sees how her silent suffering echoes through them. They often ask, “Why are you sad?” before she even realizes that sadness is clutching at her again. Her inner pain screams so loudly that the ones who love her most can hear it—even in her silence.

And yet today, something is shifting.

For the first time, the thought of leaving no longer feels like terror—it feels like freedom. The relationship she built with sincerity, hoping for love, companionship, and spirituality, has only suffocated her. Day by day. Minute by minute.

She remembered she has fought every battle in her life alone—and she will fight this one too. Not with hatred or bitterness but because

She craves:

Peace in her outer world.

Calmness in her inner world.

Stability in her emotions

Belief in her dreams.

Purity in her soul.

But she is no longer here to please everyone around her.

She has a right to herself.

She owes herself the dignity of her own dreams.

She owes herself the worth she once buried.

She cannot shrink to fit spaces that were never meant for her.

She cannot dismiss the whispers of her soul.And then, in the quiet of my heart, I meet her again.

The younger me.

I see her standing there, holding her tears, her pain, her longing to be chosen and loved. I see how she sacrificed everything—her joy, her laughter, her dreams, her entire being—for the approval of those who were never meant to walk her path.

I look at her, and I say:

I see you.

I see the brave, brilliant girl who once dreamed of higher studies abroad,

who spent hours searching for opportunities.

The visionary who wanted to become a minister,

to lead like a queen, to make policies and change lives.

I see the girl whose intellect and aura filled rooms with admiration, even among experts twice her age.

That version of you—the fearless, visionary, high spirit, unstoppable you—never died. She is here, waiting, burning, ready to rise again.

So I take her hand and whisper:

Leave the fears with me—the fear of loneliness, the fear of judgment, the fear of not being enough, the fear of failure. You have carried them long enough. They do not belong to you.

You owe nothing to anyone who ignored your tears. You owe everything to yourself and those who crafted out of you.

Put on your armor of bravery, not to hide, but to shine. Put faith in your own strength. Reclaim your dreams. Reclaim your voice. Reclaim your worth.

You are not here to please. You are not here to shrink.

You are here to live. To serve. To lead. To conquer.

And as I speak to her, I realize—I am speaking to myself.

I am the younger me, and I am the wiser me.

I am the broken one, and I am the healer.

I am the one who suffered in silence, and I am the one who now rises with a roar.

I am the weary soul, yet I refuel myself with fire, courage, and unshakable will.

This time, I choose me.

And in choosing me, I choose peace.

I choose courage.

I choose freedom.

I choose victory.

I am the hero of my own story,

the queen of my own dynasty,

the warrior of my own battles.

I am not afraid of storms—

for I am the storm.

I am not bound by chains—

I am the one who breaks them.

I am not waiting to be saved—

I am the savior of my own soul.

I rise—

unbowed, unbroken, unstoppable.

And in my rising,

I claim my crown,

my throne,

my destiny.