Surrendering to the Journey: Pain, Body, and the Divine
Februrary 15-16, 2025
Migraine, Resistance, and Learning to Sit with Discomfort
Migraine. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t function.
The early morning hours were brutal—waking up every few hours, not even every couple, just to go to the bathroom because my head was hurting so freaking badly. I was reluctant to take an Imitrex, stubbornly holding out longer than I probably should have. But isn’t this a theme of my journey at this point? Learning how to sit with discomfort instead of immediately reaching for relief? Learning to trust that pain will pass, that I will make it through?
By mid-morning, I had to cancel my past life regression session, but I wasn’t even upset about it. Thank God I had a massage booked. I slathered healing oil on my wrists, brought it with me, and asked the therapist to rub it into my neck. I probably annoyed her with my constant requests to work on my jaw, my ears, my temples—but what else was I supposed to do? I was there to feel better. The massage wasn’t the deepest, wasn’t the most intuitive, but at least I walked out feeling slightly less miserable than I walked in.
The rest of the day was spent in and out of bed—eyes closed, towels over my head, ice on my wrist, heat on my head, cold baths, wet cloths, anything to ease the pressure. In the afternoon, I ventured upstairs to the top deck, sprawled out on the netted loungers by the pool, and let the sun warm my skin. I pulled out Shakti Rising and began rereading passages on the Mahavidyas—the ten wisdom goddesses, the ten aspects of the Divine Feminine.
Kali, of course, is the first. The destroyer. The liberator. She tears away illusion, rips apart ego, and forces us to face the truth of who we are. Then comes Tara—the compassionate guide, the mother of mercy, the one who nurtures us through our destruction. Shodashi, the goddess of divine beauty and perfection, reminds me of the painful attachments I have to my own appearance. Bhuvaneshwari, the goddess of infinite space, teaches me to expand beyond my fears. Bhairavi is the goddess of fierce tapasya—the fire of transformation. Chinnamasta, beheaded, drinks her own blood, reminding me that sometimes the greatest power comes from surrendering control. Dhumavati is the void, the darkness, the place of mourning and solitude. Bagalamukhi, the goddess of silencing, shows me how to hold my tongue when I need to. Matangi is the goddess of the outcast, the raw and unfiltered, reminding me that I don’t have to fit into anyone’s mold. And finally, Kamala, the radiant lotus goddess, is the promise that after all of this transformation, I will rise.
Each one of them is here, walking with me. Teaching me. Revealing my patterns. Pushing me to evolve.
As the sun set, I went up to the yoga shala for a restorative practice. I took a few moments to really pray—to Kali, to Durga, to Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. To help me not just with the pain in my head, but the pain in my heart. The pain of still being trapped in these cycles of control and obsession.
The Return of an Old Shadow
That night, the old patterns began creeping back in. I found myself obsessively calculating calories, taking photos of my meals, sending them to Shakti for verification. How many calories in this? What about the oil? The sauces?
I know this isn’t healthy. I know how quickly this spirals from awareness to obsession to control. But in my mind, I feel bigger. Whether or not it’s real, it feels real, and that’s enough to send me into panic mode. Tempeh has more calories than I thought. The sauces are heavier than I realized. They’re cooking everything in oil. I started blotting my food, subtracting things, micromanaging every bite.
And yet, my favorite part of the night is still my fruit. No matter what happens during the day, no matter how much my mind races, that simple moment of sitting with my fruit is when my Innocent archetype gets to shine. That small, pure pleasure.
I went to bed early because the next morning we had an excursion. I was determined to feel better for it.
The Monkey Temple and My Own Reflection
The next morning, I woke up with a very mild headache but well enough to make it to yoga. I took class with Ariel for the first time, but I wasn’t impressed. She had a good heart, but the sequencing was off, her cues weren’t landing, and the depth wasn’t there. I found myself
doing my own thing, which made me realize—I didn’t regret canceling my past life regression session the day before. Maybe my energy was meant to be directed elsewhere.
At 10:30, we set off for an excursion—just me, Ernest, and Allie. Our first stop was a monkey temple about an hour outside of town. The moment we arrived, the heat was suffocating, and my migraine hangover was still lingering. I wrapped a scarf around my shoulders, only to be told it wasn’t enough. They handed me another heavy, ugly covering to put around my neck. I know this isn’t a fashion show, but I like to feel good in what I wear. Between the heat, the fabric clinging to me, and my own insecurities creeping in, I started feeling off.
Then came the monkeys.
They were only there for a short time—long enough to cause chaos, long enough to remind us who was really in charge. They ran through the temple, aggressive, mischievous, and completely unbothered by the people around them. And in the brief moment they were there, one of them attempted to piss directly on Allie’s head.
I tried not to laugh, but the absurdity of it was too much. A literal monkey temple blessing.
After they scattered, we made our way deeper inside, where we took part in an offering. The local men were enthusiastically showering Allie with compliments. Oh, you are so beautiful. They barely acknowledged me. And while I should have let it roll off my back, it got to me. My mind spiraled—I’m getting older. I don’t look the same as I did in my 20s. Maybe I was never that beautiful to begin with.
Then, I saw a photo of myself from the temple and immediately recoiled. I look disgusting. My stomach. My face. The self-loathing hit like a wave, unrelenting.
I knelt before the altar, closed my eyes, and prayed: Kali, please release me from this suffering. Help me see beyond my body, beyond my weight, beyond this obsession. Avalokiteshvara, please give me the compassion to be gentle with myself. Help me accept myself as I am.
I don’t know if they heard me, but I’d like to think they did.
Coconuts and Connection at the Pool
From the temple, we drove to the beach. At first, I wasn’t interested. The water was murky, the heat relentless. I planned to put in my headphones and read while the others swam.
Then Ernest told us about a secluded pool just a few steps away.
Allie and I made our way over, and it was perfect. The sun hit the water just right, casting little rippling light patterns. Floating buddhas lined the pool’s edges. We waded in, and before I knew it, Ernest was bringing over coconuts. Refreshing, perfectly sweet. And suddenly, everything shifted.
Allie and I talked—really talked. She’s 24, from Bulgaria. I’m 35, from the U.S. We shared stories, tears, laughter. The kind of connection that happens when two strangers recognize something familiar in each other.
She told me about her struggles—her own journey of self-discovery, of healing, of figuring out her place in the world. And in her words, I saw echoes of my younger self. That ache of wanting to be something more, of wondering if you’re doing enough, being enough. The fear of taking up space, of not being seen the way you want to be seen.
And I realized, in that moment, how wrong I had been to judge her. To assume things about her, about how others see me in comparison. She is beautiful, yes—but so am I.
I looked around. Coconuts. A floating buddha pool. Bali. Sunshine. The ocean just steps away. And I thought—how lucky am I? How divine and perfect is this moment?
We spent what felt like hours just soaking in the water, laughing, leaning our heads back into the sun. It was one of those rare, fleeting moments where everything just clicks—where the world feels gentle, and time slows down, and all the worries that have been weighing you down suddenly feel a little lighter.
Sometimes, we spend so much time fighting ourselves that we forget to just be.
There are moments in life where everything aligns—the right people, the right place, the right timing. Floating in that pool in Bali, surrounded by beauty, I felt it. A reminder that I am exactly where I need to be.
And in that moment, I was.
Snorkeling, the Sea, and a Deep Remembering
Snorkeling was breathtaking. Beneath the surface of the Balinese waters, I saw bright blue starfish, vivid coral, and a whole other world existing just beyond the reach of daily worries. It made me think—maybe I was a mermaid in a past life. Maybe I lived in Lemuria, drawn to the water, to its depth and silence. Maybe this is why I’m so drawn to water, why I find myself feeling most alive in the ocean’s depths.
On the way back, Ernest was telling us about his experiences with diving, which is something ive deeply considered taking up as a hobby. Diving could be a meditation if I allow it—if I surrender to the vastness rather than fear it. Something about the water calls me back to myself. Maybe it’s time to listen.
Kirtan, Control, and Letting Go
That evening, I played my harmonium and started getting excited for my kirtan on Tuesday. My first kirtan in Bali. A small offering, but an important one. Music has always been my bridge between worlds, my direct connection to the divine.
Yet, the shadow of control crept back in at dinner. I found myself blotting, subtracting, micromanaging my food. The obsession flared, and I could feel my need for control tightening its grip. Again, I prayed to Kali, to the Mahavidyas, to Avalokiteshvara—help me soften, help me trust, help me release.
I fell asleep, but at 1:30 AM, I woke up, made my way to the fridge, and ate a plate of fruit. It wasn’t the worst thing, but the compulsion itself unsettled me. I caught myself assigning judgment—labeling, restricting, categorizing. But Tantra teaches otherwise. No labels. No judgment. Just presence.
Moving Forward with Trust
As my time in Bali comes to an end, I feel everything—gratitude, fear, excitement, resistance. And As I begin preparing to go back to india in less than a week, I feel the weight of transition. This first leg of my time in Bali has been long and short all at once. A cycle of pain, healing, shadow, and light. And as always, the divine hands of Kali, Durga, and Avalokiteshvara are guiding me through it all.
I don’t have to have it all figured out. I just have to keep walking forward.
I thought about Chinnamasta, the goddess who beheads herself to nourish others with her own blood. She teaches that true surrender is not a loss—it is a gift. A transformation. A reclaiming of power.
And maybe that’s what I need to do—to let go of the need to control, to sever my attachment to these old patterns, to trust that I don’t need to fix myself to be worthy of love, of joy, of belonging.
In a few days, I’ll be in Rishikesh for my thai massage training. A familiar place, a new chapter. I don’t know what awaits me there. But I do know this:
Kali is with me.
The Mahavidyas are with me.
And whatever happens next, I am ready.
With love, gratitude and surrender
Eve AKA kali grayce
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