Reclaiming Power: The Unlearning of Maya
Maya spent her life trying to be “good”—a good wife, a good daughter, a good survivor—until she realized that goodness was just another form of control, keeping her small and obedient. In breaking free, she unlearns the need for permission, silences the lingering voices of doubt, and steps fully into her power—not as a survivor, but as a woman who owns her own life.
When Maya left her husband, she thought the hardest part was over. The bruises faded. The fear of his footsteps in the hallway dissipated. The walls of their shared home no longer trapped her. But something lingered.
Long after the divorce papers were signed, she found herself hesitating before making decisions, seeking validation for choices that required none. She still felt the need to apologize before expressing an opinion. She found herself drawn to men, workplaces, and communities that offered protection—but only in exchange for obedience.
It took her years to realize that she had left the abuser, but she was still living in his world.
The Psychological Hook: Why Control Felt Like Safety
Maya had learned to equate structure with security.
Her husband had dictated what she wore, where she went, and who she spoke to. He framed it as protection, as care. And even though she had fought back against him, she had internalized the deeper message: safety comes from submission.
When she left, she unknowingly gravitated toward structures that offered the same control, just with a different face—strict workplaces, a church that emphasized obedience, and friendships where questioning the status quo was frowned upon.
The environments were new, but the feeling was familiar.
One evening, she finally agreed to dinner with a successful man from church who prided himself on being a protector. He reached across the table, took the menu from her hands, and said, “I know what’s good here. I’ll order for you.” Maya froze.
It was such a small thing. He probably meant well. But deep in her gut, something stirred—a sense of déjà vu, of being made smaller, of being told what was best for her.
For the first time, she questioned the reflex she had developed. Do I need that kind of protection?
Unraveling the False Promise of Protection
Maya had to sit with an uncomfortable truth: she had been conditioned to seek safety in submission.
Her husband had told her, “If you listen to me, you’ll be safe.”
But so had her father. So had her teachers. So had the society that subtly, persistently reminded women like her that deference was the price of protection. The people around her weren’t necessarily abusive. But many still expected her to shrink, to conform, to follow rather than lead.
One day, while on a jog, she passed by a man who was fixing his car, who yelled, “Sidewalk!” at her. Huh? “Honey, run on the sidewalk so you don’t get hurt!”
Maya almost obeyed but didn’t. Everyone in this neighborhood runs on the street. And she’d been an avid runner for years. No, he won’t tell me what to do. “Sir, do I tell you how to fix your car? No. So, don’t tell me how to run.”
It felt weird to say it, but later that day, she felt lighter. And the next time she passed him, he gave her a hesitant wave.
From Being “Good” to Being Free
Maya had spent her life trying to be “good.” She was a good wife. A good daughter. Most importantly, she was a good survivor—one who forgave, who healed quietly, and who didn’t disrupt the world around her.
But one day, she asked herself: What if I don’t need to be good? What if I just need to be free? What would that even look like? She began to brainstorm a list.
Freedom Looks Like…
• Saying no, without justifying it. Like Orpah or Shonda would do it.
• Choosing relationships where power is shared, regardless of who makes more money.
• Allowing myself to be listened to without filtering my voice out of fear.
• Taking up space in a room without shrinking, apologizing, or making others comfortable first.
• Spending money on myself without guilt or an explanation.
• Asking for what I want, saying what I mean, and not managing other people’s discomfort.
• Wearing what I want, not what makes me look “respectable.”
• Unlearning the idea that success must be earned through suffering.
• Choosing pleasure—whether in food, rest, art, or intimacy—without shame.
• Turning down an invitation kindly but without offering an excuse.
• Letting people misunderstand me without rushing to explain or defend myself.
• Believing I am worthy, even when I’m not being productive.
• Walking away from conversations where I’m not respected.
• Speaking first, instead of waiting to see what the ‘right’ answer is.
• Trusting my instincts, even when they go against logic, tradition, or expectation.
• Expecting reciprocity in relationships instead of being the one who gives more.
• Holding people accountable for their actions instead of making excuses for them.
• Enjoying my body, my beauty, and my desires without policing them for male approval.
• Owning my ambition unapologetically, without softening it to make others comfortable.
• Refusing to be grateful for things I deserve—respect, safety, basic kindness.
• Unlearning the need to “perform” healing and allowing myself to grieve, rage, and be messy.
• Letting go of people who only valued me when I was struggling.
• Laughing loudly, crying openly, loving fully—without moderating myself.
• Refusing to shrink just because someone else is insecure.
• Defining myself beyond being a survivor. Because survival was just the beginning.
The Power of Unlearning
For years, Maya thought healing meant learning. Learning to trust again. Learning to set boundaries. Learning to be confident.
But what if the real work wasn’t learning but unlearning? Unlearning the instinct to submit to men or older people. Unlearning the belief that she had to please others. Unlearning the need to feel “protected” by others.
She began catching herself in more moments of hesitation to speak up. At work, she challenged a senior executive’s decision when she knew it was flawed. In dating, she voiced her needs before automatically deferring to men. In conversations with her mother—who always told her that a good wife endures what her husband needs her to—she calmly but firmly stated: “I deserve a partner who is good to me.”
Each time she did this, she felt something shift. The old fear still surfaced, but it no longer paralyzed her. She was breaking the pattern.
The final test came at work. Maya was offered a promotion. It was a leadership role—something she had worked toward for years.
She was proud. Excited. Ready.
And then, an older coworker—a woman she respected—smiled politely and said, “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Leadership is a lot of pressure.”
Maya felt the familiar hesitation. But she recognized it now. This wasn’t just her coworker’s doubt. It was every voice from her past. Her ex-husband’s warnings that she couldn’t succeed alone. Her father’s insistence that men lead and women follow. The quiet, persistent message she had absorbed for years.
For the first time, she answered —not with doubt, but with certainty.
“Elaine, you know I respect you. But, if I were a man, would you be asking me that?”
Her coworker blinked. Looked away. Laughed awkwardly.
And Maya? She took the job.
Breaking the Last Chain: The Lingering Voices
The greatest deception of abuse is that it convinces its victims they are powerless. But that was never true. Maya had endured. But Maya also left. And Maya had rebuilt. Power had always been hers. And she does not need permission to use it. Through therapy and working with a trauma-informed coach, Maya learned to recognize which voices were hers and which belonged to others.
“That is my doubt. And I can move forward anyway.”
“That is my fear. And I am not ruled by it.”
“That is my hesitation. And I will still take the next step.”
“That is my discomfort. And it means I am growing.”
“That is their voice. But my voice is louder now.”
“That is my past. And I am not bound to it.”
“That is their judgment. But I do not have to carry it.”
“That is their resistance. And I am stronger than it.”
“That is my old conditioning. And I am choosing something new.”
“That is my voice. And I'm so glad I used used.”
She did not need to fight the voices anymore. She simply had to stop being owed by them.