I LEFT THE WORLD SO I COULD RETURN TO MYSELF - PART 1: THE RUPTURE

Inside This Chapter

• Why I disappeared from the world and from myself
• What silence revealed when nothing else could
• How burnout unraveled me into truth
• Why healing begins when everything stops

The Threshold of Silence

There are seasons when the soul doesn’t soften its voice—it collapses into quiet.
Not out of strength, but because there’s no energy left to pretend.

There was no dramatic exit.
No Instagram announcement.
No structured pause.

I slipped out of my own life quietly—closing tabs, ignoring notifications, moving through rooms without remembering why I’d walked into them.
Hollow. Exhausted. Done.

Stillness didn’t save me at first.
It stripped me.
Slowed me.
Held me against myself until I could finally hear the truth beneath the noise.

And in that stripping, something older rose.
A devotion not to roles or expectations,
but to the soft, sacred ache of my own becoming.

This wasn’t a comeback.
This was a woman remembering herself.

Stillness didn’t save me. It stripped me clean enough to finally hear the truth.

The Exhaustion That Was Never Weakness

I kept trying.
Trying to show up.
Trying to perform resilience.
Trying to meet the expectations tied to every role I held.

But exhaustion wasn’t a flaw in me.
It was the moment the old life stopped fitting.

My soul was tired of managing, fixing, holding, proving.
She wanted truth more than achievement.
Quiet more than applause.

So I stepped away—
from the noise,
from the shoulds,
from the version of me who kept shrinking to survive.

Leaving wasn’t a declaration.
It was a lifeline.
A quiet, final whisper: no more pretending.

Exhaustion wasn’t failure — it was my soul refusing to perform one more lie.

The Moment Everything Broke

November 2020 carved itself into me.
One moment.
One piece of news.
One sentence that split my life into “before” and “after.”

A silence so sharp it knocked breath out of my body.
The kind of shock that steals your ability to stand.

It wasn’t fear.
It was a collapse.
A soul-level breaking that cracked every illusion of control.

There is no language for that kind of rupture.
Only sensation.
Only shock.
Only the sense that something irreversible has happened.

What happened in 2020 is sacred ground.
It shaped my entire lineage path.
It cracked me open.
It sent me into initiation.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

Not every truth belongs to the internet.
Not every wound is meant for public consumption.
Some stories belong in session.
Some belong in the body.
Some remain between me and the One who held me through it.

Naming the event isn’t what matters.
Naming its impact is.

Discernment is feminine power.
And this part of the story—
the part that broke me open—
is mine to hold,
and yours to feel through your own doorway.

Some truths are too sacred to speak — they’re meant to be carried.

The rupture didn’t just shift my life.
It rearranged my soul.

The Hollow Years

For years afterward, I walked hollow—
a slow grief, a quiet death of who I thought I had to be.

I cried into the snowfall.
Let the cold numb what my heart couldn’t carry.
Folded laundry without remembering folding it.
Sat in my car long after the engine was off, unable to move.
Prayed the sun would burn away everything false.

Breath became my anchor—
the only thing that kept me from disappearing altogether.
Sometimes it was just one conscious inhale a day, stolen while standing at the kitchen sink.

And eventually, the silence spoke: No more.

Every role I held.
Every identity I performed.
Every way I abandoned myself—
all of it had to fall.

Not punishment.
Initiation.
A doorway I never chose but had to walk through.

And as I walked through it, life around me began reflecting what was happening within.

The Industry Mirror

As the world collapsed in 2021, something in me recognized the familiar shape of breaking.

The coaching space—once sacred to me—felt loud, performative, rushed, and disconnected from the depth I needed.
Suddenly, it all looked different.

It wasn’t a critique.
It was grief.
Because I knew what it cost to hold this work with honor—
the thousands invested,
the 200+ hours of rigorous training,
the 13 years guiding souls through real, raw, holy terrain.

For me, this was never a trend.
It was a covenant.

And watching the sacred become algorithmic felt like watching a temple crumble brick by brick.

My integrity couldn’t breathe in that environment.
Healing felt too holy to rush.
And I refused to offer what I wasn’t living.

So I stepped back—
not out of judgment,
but out of devotion.

My own rupture demanded truth.
Not performance.

The Full Stop

By 2023, I stopped everything.
Content. Clients. Coaching.

Not in rebellion—
but in reverence.

And then came the silence.

(Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that howls.
The kind that drags you into every truth you’ve avoided
until all that remains is the woman underneath it all.)

Silence became its own ceremony.
A stripping.
A remembering.

Some mornings I sat at the edge of my bed for an hour, staring at the floor, letting my breath be the only thing that moved.
Some nights I lay awake listening to the hum of the refrigerator, unsure if I was grieving or simply healing.

I let the stillness rearrange me.
I let time soften me.
I let myself heal without performing it for anyone.

And I promised myself one thing:
When I returned, it would be real.
Unforced. Unperformed. Unapologetically true.

The Next Chapter

Stay with me for Part 2: The Homecoming—
the season where silence became teacher, mirror, and medicine.

With you,

Preet

P.S. If you want to walk beside me through the next chapter,
you’re welcome inside Sacred Threads—
The private letter where I share the transmissions that never make it online.
The rituals.
The reckonings.
The quiet truths that shape a woman’s becoming.

It’s where this story continues —
and where you might find your own reflection waiting.