Today in meditation, I found myself sitting with some of the more tender moments I've had with women—particularly in spaces where the sacred is center stage, where leadership is not declared but felt, and where power flows in the subtle ways we often pretend not to notice.

I was reflecting on what happens between women in spiritual spaces when things aren't fully named. When one has more experience, another more drive. When mentorship isn't clear. When respect isn't offered. When fire isn't honored for what it is.

And I'm not here to accuse or expose—I'm writing this because I think it's time we start telling the truth about the quiet wars that can brew in women's spaces, especially the ones dressed in white and wrapped in ceremony.

Because if we don't talk about it, we can't heal it.

When Competition is Clean

Years ago, I lived with a roommate in a spiritual community. We never said it out loud, but we both knew there was a game happening between us: who would get up first for morning practice. When I rose before him, it felt like a tiny internal victory. When he got up first, I felt myself stir a little faster the next day.

It wasn't petty. It was fuel. That gentle fire that pulls you out of bed and into your practice. No resentment. No performance. Just clean, inner competition. Like a silent pact to be better, without stepping on anyone's toes.

That's what healthy competition can look like: pure, quiet, and energizing.

But it's not always that clean.

What We Carry In

Many of us arrive on the path of spiritual service dragging invisible suitcases filled with our former lives. Some come from the corporate world. Others from academic achievement. Some have fought for recognition in households that never really saw them. All of it shapes the way we show up—even when we're wearing white linen, even when we speak of the divine.

My teacher once asked me, "What were you trained to do before you came to this?" Not in terms of credentials—but in terms of behavior. Survival.

That conversation stayed with me. It helped me see how, even in the most "awakened" circles, we might still be operating from old programming: trying to prove, outperform, or position ourselves to be "chosen." Not out of malice. Out of a deep human ache to matter.

I remember walking into my yoga studio in New York City many years ago—maybe I was 22 at the time. I had come to register for a class, and the woman at the desk, doing her karma yoga shift, was beaming. She had just published a book and was overjoyed to talk about it.

I asked her what it was about, and she said, "Women who sabotage each other in the workplace."

I blinked. I'd never even thought about that. The concept was completely foreign to me back then—I'd never had a "career" or climbed any ladder. I didn't yet know what it meant to be undermined by someone you thought was on your team.

And yet... that moment lodged in me. I didn't read the book, but the phrase has haunted and instructed me over the last 20 years. It's echoed through moments of my life when I realized the sabotage didn't stop at the office door. It found its way into yoga studios, retreat centers, medicine circles, and sacred spaces.

So many of us leave corporate jobs, worn thin by deadlines and hierarchies, looking for a new way to live. We trade blazers for prayer shawls. We say we want "love and light." But if we don't look honestly at what we've been trained to do—how we've been taught to climb, compete, perform—we end up carrying those dynamics straight into the next space.

We start clawing for the mic, for the seat, for the sacred tool—without realizing we've just recreated the same pyramid in softer colors.

And I get it. That clawing comes from something deep. I remember another woman I met during my early days in New York. She worked at a prominent publication, and she said to me—with zero irony—"I clawed my way to the middle."

That sentence hit hard. Not because it was wrong, but because it was true. And when you get to the middle, what happens? You live in fear of who's coming up behind you.

That kind of conditioning doesn't dissolve just because we light incense or chant mantra. If anything, it becomes more insidious—because it hides behind spiritual language.

The One Who Wants to Be Seen

In nearly every sacred circle I've been part of, there is a version of her. The woman who wants to be seen. Who is talented, bright, maybe even deeply devoted—but who still moves from the subtle current of needing to lead, to control, to hold the mic.

Sometimes, I've been her. Other times, I've been the one holding the center while she dances on the edge, trying to inch closer to it.

When this energy isn't acknowledged, it turns sour. When experience is ignored, when fire isn't channeled properly, when roles aren't clear or honored—it creates distortion in the field. And the worst part? Everyone feels it, but no one names it.

My Elder Friend and the Unspoken Truth

After the Yogi Bhajan scandal, I was speaking with a friend of mine—an elder, a true one. She's 75, and a long-time devotee of Osho. Yes, that Osho. She was there in Oregon, through the Sheela scandal and everything. She's seen it all. Devotion. Disillusionment. Power. Collapse. And still, she prays.

We were talking about what really happens in spiritual communities—especially the things that don't make the flyers—and she said something that's stayed with me like a gong in my chest:

"People don't want to admit it, but women love to fuck power."

I paused. Let that sink in.

She wasn't being provocative. She was being real.

It's not always the man or the teacher we're drawn to—it's the energy. The charisma. The heat. The proximity to the center. The desire to be the chosen one.

And if we can't say that out loud, if we're still pretending that our spiritual longing is always pure, we are lying to ourselves.

Respect Is a Spiritual Practice

There's another teaching I've received again and again: Respect those who came before you. Not because they're better. Not because they're always right. But because they've walked the terrain. They've stumbled, failed, tried again. They've been entrusted with tools not because they're flashy, but because they've proven they can carry them.

And just because someone is younger doesn't mean they lack wisdom. Some are born with elder souls. But experience still matters. And in a spiritual context—especially now, in this Age of Aquarius we all keep invoking—the true practice is learning how to walk together. Side by side. Circle, not hierarchy.

That means learning how to empower without needing to be in control. That means bowing—not performatively, but sincerely—to the ones who've held the seat you now wish to step into. It also means sharing what we know, without shrinking or shaming.

And when you're holding the current? When you've been entrusted with something because you've done the work, carried the load, and proven you can hold it? It's not about being better. It's about being available for what the role requires.

Women on TV Know Something, Too

Now, this might sound like a detour, but bear with me.

Sometimes I think women in spiritual circles could benefit from watching a season of Real Housewives. No, really.

Not to glorify drama—but to observe the micro-behaviors of power and friendship, envy and alliance, repair and avoidance. There's a mirror in there.

And sure, no "awakened woman" wants to admit to binge-watching that stuff. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's my guilty pleasure. Maybe it's Rihanna, who recently said, "All I want to do is stay home and watch reality TV."

God bless you, Rih Rih. I get it.

Those shows are full of distortion, yes. But they're also full of women navigating dynamics we don't always have the language for. And if you can watch without getting emotionally caught, it's a masterclass in feminine psychology.

We are not above any of it. And if we think we are, we're probably just dressing it in a white robe and calling it devotion.

Sacred Tools Are Not Trophies

One of the biggest misunderstandings I've seen is the idea that tools—songs, drums, rituals, sacred plants—are earned like awards.

But they're not. They are entrusted. Handed down when the soul is ready to carry the weight.

Just because you attended all the classes, just because you did your homework, just because you want it—doesn't mean it's yours to hold.

This path doesn't reward ambition. It tests it.

And what I've learned is that when you're handed something sacred, it's not a crown—it's a responsibility. It will humble you. Break you. Teach you.

When We Bow For Real

What I'm walking away with—after this past year of collaboration, tension, beauty, and breakthrough—is this:

When women bow to each other from a place of true recognition, something shifts.

Not just the surface-level "I see you, sister" energy. But the kind where you really feel who someone is. And you let them lead when it's time. And you lead when it's yours to carry. And you listen even when your ego wants to speak.

Because when we do that, something miraculous happens.

Harmony.

And where there's harmony, there's trust. And when trust is in the room, the divine can enter.

Final Thought

So when you step into a new spiritual space, slow down. Feel the women who've been tending the fire. Don't rush to be seen. Don't rush to hold the mic. Let your presence speak before your performance does.

And if you're already seated in the circle—welcome your sisters wisely. Don't shrink. Don't hoard. But don't pretend you haven't earned your seat either. Teach. Share. Empower.

We're all in this together.

And it's sacred. But it's only sacred if we treat it that way.

We are all sitting in the circle. We are all calling for life.

To live. To love. To walk in beauty.