There are moments when a line is crossed – when a gesture or a word presses into an old, sacred wound. You feel it instantly. You recognize it not just as discomfort, but as a violation. And yet – you do not retaliate.
Not because you’re confused.
Not because you’re numb.
But because you’re awake enough to see the bigger field.
Years ago, I found myself in the presence of a grieving couple. They had just lost their daughter in a tragic way – a loss so unbearable it distorted the air around them. Their grief was raw, barely held together by habit and silence. I knew I couldn’t fix it. I didn’t try. I simply chose to be kind. Light. Playful when needed. A distraction when possible. I offered what peace I could.
Then, one day, amid shared laughter, the wife Sharon kissed me – not gently, not in friendship, but in a way that pierced into every boundary I hold dear. It shocked me. It hurt. Not because of desire or rejection – but because for me, the mouth is sacred.
As a survivor of childhood abuse, that space is not available to anyone but my life partner. That kiss was a theft. A silent kind of violence.
But I said nothing harsh. I told her it wasn’t comfortable. I pulled away gently. She laughed and apologized, and I let it pass.
I did not shout. I did not shame her. I did not unburden my truth onto someone barely keeping herself upright. She was already falling apart, and I knew it. So I chose containment. Not suppression – but containment. A conscious pause in service of mercy.
I carried the pain of that moment quietly. Not because it didn’t matter – but because her pain was louder than mine, and in that moment, I chose not to make her pay for it.
Later, her husband Benjamin – my friend at the time – saw the kiss. He never asked me what happened. Never gave me a chance to speak. He folded himself into his assumptions and disappeared. He never considered that I might have been violated too. He never considered that my silence was compassionate restraint for both of them – not guilt.
Strangely, after Sharon died, his next wife, a lovely woman named Atulita had kissed me one night and we enjoyed a kissing session for an hour or so. There was nothing else there for me so I let the relationship slip back into friendship. She had told me about her relationship with Benjamin and I was happy for her, hoping he would help her heal her anger. But she died soon after.
Over time, my connection with Benjamin dissolved completely. He had his grief and assumptions. I had my boundary and no-drama policy. And between those truths, no bridge was ever built.
Sometimes, people grieve in ways that turn them against clarity. Sometimes, they cling to their pain so tightly that it becomes identity – and anyone who challenges that identity, even by accident, becomes an enemy.
But none of that changed what I chose.
I chose not to retaliate.
I chose not to dramatize or collapse.
I chose not to make her fragile state worse than it already was.
And I felt Benjamin was simply not a worthy friend. Clear and simple.
That was my integrity speaking. Not because I wanted to be seen as good – but because I knew that matching her pain with punishment – or confronting the already frail and lost Benjamin – would only create more harm.
I’ve seen enough of that in my life. I’ve lived enough of it in my family.
I know what it costs.
So I walked away.
Quietly.
Grieving the loss of a friendship, yes – but not poisoned by it.
Years later, both his wives would pass, as did his daughter.The pain he carries is beyond measure. I still feel compassion for him, even though he has the petty look in his eye when I see him at Amma’s retreats.
Yet, I still pray Benjamin finds peace. But I do not regret the space between us. Some karmas are too thick to walk through together. Some entanglements are best honored from afar.
For anyone reading this who has ever been wrongly blamed, silently hurt, or pushed away by someone who refused to ask for the truth – know this:
Your restraint is not weakness.
Your boundaries are not cruelty.
And your refusal to retaliate is not a failure to act – it’s a mastery most people will never understand.
You don’t need to explain your integrity.
You just need to live it.
Let the field remember who you are.
Let the lesson settle where it’s meant to land.
And then – keep walking.
You’ve already done the hardest part.
This story explores how grief, trauma, and personal history can collide in the most intimate of moments, challenging our spiritual boundaries and emotional sovereignty. Through the lens of friendship, unwelcome affection, and the unspoken wounds of childhood abuse, the piece teaches readers how to navigate loss, betrayal, and projection without collapsing into rage or self-abandonment.
If you’re walking the path of trauma healing, conscious relationships, or karmic release, this narrative offers clarity and encouragement. Learn how to hold presence in the face of grief, how to respond to emotional confusion with grace, and how spiritual maturity can transform even the most painful exchanges into catalysts for personal evolution.
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