There is a question that has been sitting with me lately, quietly tapping me on the shoulder every time I think I have myself figured out.
Do I actually know myself, or do I simply know who I have become in service to others?
That question has been uncomfortable. As someone who has spent a significant portion of my life in service, I know how easy it is to become exceptionally good at reading a room, anticipating needs, and finding fulfillment in caring for others. Some of us can tell you exactly how someone takes their coffee, when they're upset before they realize it themselves, and which words will make them feel seen.
And yet, ask us, "What do you need?" and suddenly we're buffering like a computer running on dial up internet. Funny how that works. Over the past several months, my experiences with Holy Fire have been opening my eyes to so much more about my relationship with service, devotion, and spirituality. It has gently, and sometimes not so gently, held up a mirror and asked me to look at the person standing in front of it. Not the kajira. Not the service oriented person. Not the title, the role, or the expectations. Just me.
Because here's the thing I am slowly learning, Devotion is beautiful, but if it only ever flows outward, eventually you run dry.
We talk a lot in Power Exchange about vulnerability with our partners, but how often are we vulnerable with ourselves? How often do we sit quietly and admit the things we don't want to say out loud? "I am afraid of disappointing people." "I don't always know what I want." "I am terrified of being unnecessary." "I don't know who I am outside of service." Those are not easy things to admit.
Self intimacy is a strange thing. It asks you to become a student of yourself. To learn your own rhythms, your own desires, your own boundaries. It asks you to stop performing and start listening. Can you articulate your needs? Can you identify your desires without filtering them through someone else's approval? Can you sit alone with yourself and still enjoy your own company? Those questions matter. Because there is a tremendous difference between devotion and loneliness wearing devotion's clothing.
Sometimes people serve because it fulfills them. Sometimes people serve because they are afraid that if they stop, no one will stay. And if that sentence made you shift uncomfortably in your seat, welcome to the club. We have jackets. They're probably black leather.
The older I get, the more I realize that healthy Power Exchange is not built upon one whole person and one incomplete person. It is built upon two individuals who have done the difficult work of knowing themselves. You should be able to stand on your own before choosing to kneel beside another. Not because kneeling is lesser, I will forever argue that there is incredible strength in intentional surrender, but because surrender means something entirely different when it is a choice rather than a necessity.
There is power in saying, "I know who I am without you, and I still choose you."
That is devotion. Likewise, there is power in saying, "I know I will survive without this dynamic, but I choose to invest myself in it anyway." That is devotion too.
Holy Fire has taught me that spirituality is not always found in grand moments. Sometimes it is found in accountability. In honesty. In sitting quietly and asking yourself difficult questions without immediately reaching for comfortable answers.
Who are you when no one is watching? Who are you when no one needs you? Can you offer yourself the same compassion you so freely give to everyone else? I suspect many of us are still learning. And perhaps that is the point.
So, if you've made it this far, I leave you with one final question, Before you devote yourself to another person, have you ever considered becoming devoted to yourself first?
Because I am beginning to believe that the strongest acts of surrender do not begin at someone's feet. They begin in front of a mirror. And if that mirror occasionally calls you out on your nonsense? Well, that's just part of the spiritual journey.