Post 3: Trigger Warning

From time to time, I will be posting about heavy topics on this blog. If I’m going to tell my story in hopes of helping others like me, I must tell the good, the bad, and the ugly. Whenever I share something sensitive, you’ll see “trigger warning” in the title. Today is one of those days.

The Munay Ki are a special set of Shamanic Rites that have been passed down by ancient Q’ero Incan Shamans. I have received these rites and gifted (this is how we label their transmission) them as well. The process of integrating these rites involves working with specific archetypes connected to the chakras for a period of two weeks each. Although I received the rites once and completed my integration (during quarantine, no less), I still choose to go through the process with my initiates whenever I give the rites. This gives me the chance to recenter, revisit, and go deeper into whatever medicine awaits me within my healing centers.

Around two years ago (I think), I was working through the archetypes and reached Pachakuti, the archetype of the crown chakra. As always, I took my activation shamanic journey, expecting a message or instruction on what I’d be focusing on for the next two weeks. His request seemed simple enough, he gave me a mantra to say every day: "I am healthy, and I’ve always been healthy. I am wealthy, and I’ve always been wealthy. I am happy, and I’ve always been happy. I am worthy, and I’ve always been worthy. I am loved, and I’ve always been loved."

It seemed harmless, even uplifting. But one day, as I repeated the mantra in the shower, a voice inside me pushed back. "You have not ALWAYS been these things," it whispered. I felt a tremble deep in my stomach, and tears pricked my eyes as memories surfaced, evidence of all the ways I hadn’t felt worthy, loved, or happy.

One of the stories my mind likes to replay is one that’s been told countless times since my childhood. The phone rang at my grandmother’s house, and when she answered, a frantic 19-year-old sobbed that she couldn’t get the baby to stop crying. My grandmother turned to my aunt and said, "Get your shoes on, we have to go pick up Yolanda and the baby."

That single statement carried so much understanding and expectation. Her daughter was a young mother, overwhelmed, wanting help but not yet ready to admit she needed it. She had previously made it clear she didn’t want her family in her child’s life, but here she was, calling home. My aunt describes the rest of that day. When they arrived, they knocked, but no one answered. Then they heard a distant voice flatly exclaim, "It’s unlocked."

They walked in and made their way toward two doors in the back. One led to the bedroom, where a baby lay crying in her crib. The other led to the bathroom, where my mother sat in the tub, sipping a glass of wine. My grandmother’s assumption had been wrong. She wasn’t ready to come home; she just wanted them to come take the baby.

This story is one of many that paints my childhood. My mother’s inability to cope when things got hard was a pattern my siblings and I came to know well. It wasn’t always a bad thing for us, most of the time we preferred my grandmother’s house anyway. The cousins, the cartoons, the stocked fridge, it all beat what waited for us in any number of the apartments and projects we lived in with my mom. But the message wasn’t lost on us. She didn’t really want us, not most of the time. Only when we made her forget her own pain.

These memories swarmed me in the shower that day, challenging the mantra I was trying to believe. And as painful as it was, Pachakuti’s assignment was brilliant. I was in my forties, only now facing this shadow of shame. I needed to feel that gut punch so I could eventually look in the mirror and say those words with confidence.

So, how did I start?

I began by forcing my mind to recall memories of being loved during those painful times. For example, my grandmother and aunt didn’t hesitate to come get me that day. Well, my aunt might not have been thrilled about sharing space with her dramatic older sister again, but that had nothing to do with me. They both loved me immediately and without question. They knew that baby was worthy of comfort, support, and love.

Today’s reflection on the voices we listen to is different from my previous posts. This time, I needed to listen to the voice of doubt in me, not to integrate its lies, but to understand. She was hurt and ashamed, holding onto beliefs that contradicted Pachakuti’s mantra. I needed to hear her out so I could lovingly prove her wrong.

I listened only to understand, not to judge or accept her reality as mine. And then, I brought forth a new voice, one rooted in balance and duality. Yes, I experienced unloving moments growing up, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t loved. Yes, I felt unworthy, but that doesn’t make it true. No, I’m not happy 24/7, but I’ve been blessed with countless happy moments.

Today, I can stand in front of the mirror, look myself in the eyes, and repeat Pachakuti’s affirmations. I’ve even changed the word from "affirmations" to "confirmations." Because now, I can confirm these things as my reality.

When the voices you hear from within sound unloving, shameful, and hurt listen to them. Listen to these voices with an open heart and an understanding mind. Let them vent to you and show you where you need a little extra love and healing. But when you’ve heard them out, don’t you dare take their pain as your truth. You meet them with a new voice, one that is backed with the love and support of the entire Universe. Because you are precious and It has always seen you that way.

 

Thank you for reading, Maestra Wyzdom <3