It was Friday night, after the main ceremony at a spiritual workshop gathering.
As the evening transitioned into the late-night sessions — the ones known for being bold, long, and intense — I stepped into a Tantra workshop.

I walked in feeling confident, expecting it to be light and easy.

At first, it was. We did some simple connection exercises: dancing, eye-gazing, breathing. Nothing I hadn’t done before.

Then, in a single moment — the room dimmed and the facilitator gave an instruction:
“Choose a partner.”

Before I could scan the room for the most attractive man I could find, someone approached me and asked to work together.

I didn’t have time to ask myself if I wanted to or not. I stood in front of him while my eyes continued scanning the room, looking for someone else — someone familiar, someone more appealing.

The realization that I wasn’t particularly drawn to the man in front of me began to settle in.
And before I could do anything about it, a mattress appeared under our feet and I found myself sitting across from him.

I sat at a distance, my thoughts scattered, my gaze restless.
I couldn’t find a single drop of presence within me.

Not even the compassionate space I usually hold for my own clients.
Nothing. No acceptance. No connection. No curiosity toward the man sitting in front of me.

Though we were instructed to look into each other’s eyes, I kept mine closed.
I tried to talk myself through it: You’re deeper than this. You’re more evolved than this fear.
But my body didn’t agree. My body, aligned with my mind, resisted.

And yes, I know — where there is resistance, there is an invitation for growth.
Still, I couldn’t open my eyes.

I started feeling a tightness in my throat.
All I wanted was to run.

The facilitator began describing the next steps of the session.
We would sit close, knees touching, holding hands. We would breathe together — into the pelvis, into the heart, into the space between us.
Eventually, we would move into the “Shiva–Shakti” posture — a sacred representation of the tantric union between masculine and feminine.

But something inside me — Shakti herself — rose up and said:
Enough.
Enough pretending. Enough pleasing. Enough forcing.
This isn’t right for you. Get up and leave.

Even when it was clarified that participants could choose to stay in a simpler sitting posture and just breathe —
Shakti didn’t want to stay.

The moment the instructions ended, I gave a soft nod to the man in front of me, silently signaling that I was leaving.
I stood up and walked out of the room.

The moment shook me.
I didn’t feel empowered. I didn’t feel proud.
I felt defeated. A wave of frustration crashed over me like a tsunami.

Tears began to rise. My throat tightened.
But I didn’t let them fall. I held my composure. Swallowed the hurt.

I wandered over to the tea and music area, looking for distraction.
I stayed there way too late, exhausted but restless — hoping some prince would appear and rescue me from myself.

I had become a little girl again.
A desperate little girl.
Longing to be loved.
Longing not to fall asleep alone.