And maybe the hardest part isn't even the pain itself.

It is the feeling that none of it has any meaning.

I don't know what exactly you are going through. And I won't tell you, “Everything will be fine,” because sometimes those words can feel almost cruel to someone who is hurting deeply.

But I want to share with you what I believe.

I am a Muslim woman. And my understanding of trials is shaped by the belief that this life is not a place of ultimate justice, nor is it a place of constant peace.

This life is a test.

And that does not make your pain any smaller.

Quite the opposite.

It means that your tears, your struggle, your injustice, and even the days when you barely have the strength to get out of bed — none of it is lost.

In Islam, none of it goes unnoticed.

Dunya Is Not a Place Where Everything Is Meant to Be Fair

There is one thought that has profoundly changed the way I see life.

We are used to expecting that if a person is good, good things should happen to them. If they are honest, they should be protected. If they don't hurt anyone, they shouldn't be hurt.

But life doesn't work that way.

The Qur’an says:

“We will certainly test you with something of fear and hunger and loss of wealth, lives, and fruits. Give good news to those who patiently endure.”

(Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:155)

Notice: Allah does not say that trials will necessarily be small.

He tells us that they will come.

Fear. Hunger. Loss. Separation. Loss of wealth. Loss of people.

So the fact that something incredibly difficult is happening to you right now does not mean that you have been forgotten by God.

Sometimes we ask:

“If Allah loves me, why does this hurt so much?”

But Islam offers a completely different perspective.

A trial does not necessarily mean the absence of mercy.

Sometimes it is precisely within a trial that a person draws closer to Allah in a way they never could have during a time of ease.

Pain Can Become a Form of Purification

In Islam, there is a beautiful idea: the suffering of a believer does not have to be a meaningless loss.

Even the pain of something as small as a thorn can become a means of having one's sins forgiven.

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ taught that no fatigue, illness, sadness, harm, or even the prick of a thorn afflicts a believer except that Allah uses it to erase some of their sins.

Think about that.

You may be going through a period that feels destructive right now, and yet in the Hereafter it may turn out to have been one of the periods through which Allah purified you and raised you in rank.

We see only today. Allah sees the whole story.

And that is why sabr — patience, perseverance, and the ability to keep holding on to God — has such an important place in Islam.

Sabr does not mean that you are not allowed to cry.

It does not mean pretending that you are not hurting.

It does not mean silently accepting every injustice.

Sometimes sabr is simply saying:

“I am hurting deeply. But I still won't let go of Allah.”

Remember Yusuf

If you feel that your story is too unfair, remember the Prophet Yusuf عليه السلام.

His own brothers betrayed him.

They threw him into a well.

He was sold.

Then he was falsely accused and imprisoned, even though he was innocent.

And this is where the story of Yusuf becomes especially close to anyone who feels trapped in a corner right now.

Because Yusuf's prison was not the end of his story.

It was part of a path whose meaning he could not yet see.

He did not know that one day he would leave it.

He did not know that he would eventually rise to a position of authority.

He did not know that through him, an entire people would be saved from famine.

When Yusuf was sitting in prison, his life looked broken.

But Allah could see what Yusuf could not yet see.

And perhaps that is one of the most comforting things about faith:

you do not have to understand the meaning of your story right now❗

You may not know why this loss happened.

You may not know why that person left.

You may not know why you were falsely accused.

You may not know why a door closed precisely when you were certain it should open.

You don't have to know.

Because the limitations of your perspective do not mean that there is no meaning.

There is hikmah — a divine wisdom that we sometimes understand only years later.

And sometimes, we understand it only in the Hereafter.

If You Have Been Wronged — Speak to Allah

There is one more thing I especially want to remind the person who is being oppressed.

Do not be afraid to bring your pain to Allah.

In Islam, zulm — oppression and injustice — is a grave sin.

The Prophet ﷺ warned:

“Beware the supplication of the oppressed, for there is no barrier between it and Allah.”

How powerful this is for someone who feels completely powerless.

When people turn against you, when you are denied the chance to speak, when no one wants to hear you, there is still one door that remains open.

The door to Allah.

You can come to Him without beautiful words.

You don't need to make a long prayer.

Sometimes a dua is simply:

“Allah, You know what happened to me.”

Or:

“Allah, I am hurting. Help me.”

He knows.

He hears.

And the prayer of the oppressed holds a special place in Islam.

This does not mean that we can dictate to God exactly how and when the answer should come.

But we can hold on to this certainty:

injustice is not hidden from Him.

What If Justice Never Comes Here?

This is where Islam gives a person something this world sometimes cannot give.

The Hereafter.

Eternal life.

Because if we look only at this life, it is easy to fall into despair.

We see people who have done terrible things and were never punished.

We see innocent people lose years of their lives.

We see liars being believed.

We see people who destroyed someone else's life continue living as though nothing happened.

And then we ask:

“Where is justice?”

Islam answers:

It will come.

If not here, then there.

On the Day of Judgment, no injustice will remain forgotten.

The Prophet ﷺ described the frightening reality of a person who comes on the Day of Judgment with prayers, fasting, and other good deeds, but who also wronged others, insulted them, slandered them, or took away their rights.

Their good deeds will be given to those they wronged.

And if their good deeds run out, they will take upon themselves the sins of those they oppressed.

And then it becomes clear:

what looks like the victory of an unjust person today may turn out to be their loss in eternity.

And what looks like your defeat today may turn out to be your victory there.

So Please Don't Think Your Pain Is Meaningless

I don't know how much longer your trial will last.

And I won't promise you that tomorrow everything will suddenly change.

But I want to ask you to do at least one thing:

Don't let your pain convince you that Allah has abandoned you.

You can be tired.

You can cry.

You can not understand why this happened.

You may even one day say, “I can't do this anymore.”

But keep returning to Him.

Again and again.

Even if your worship has become weaker.

Even if your dua consists of only a few words.

Even if you are simply sitting in the dark, saying nothing.

Return.

Because sometimes faith is not the feeling of light.

Sometimes faith is continuing to walk when you cannot see the light yet.

And perhaps one day you will look back and understand what you cannot understand today.

Why one door closed.

Why one person left.

Why you had to go through this.

Why Allah allowed you to arrive at this point.

Or perhaps you will never fully understand it in this life.

And then what remains is trust.

Tawakkul.

The ability to say:

“I don't know how my story will end.

But I know Who holds it in His hands.”

If you're struggling right now — please, hold on.

Not to the promise that life will never hurt you again.

But to the promise that Allah knows your pain, hears your supplication, and will not lose sight of a single step you take toward Him.

And remember:

this life is temporary.

No matter how long this night may seem.

And the mercy of Allah is not.

But my submissiveness only emerges around a man who has genuine authority over me. And for me, authority is impossible without love. I have to respect this man, feel his strength, and know that I can trust him.

I’ve spent some time studying this subject, and I want to tell you about Dominant/submissive relationships — including through the lens of Vedic philosophy.

Dominant/submissive relationships are relationships in which one partner, the submissive, voluntarily gives another partner, the Dominant, control, responsibility, and the right to make decisions within certain boundaries.

But psychologically and spiritually, this is not about humiliation to me at all.

It is about total trust.

About surrendering the ego.

On a deeper level, I see this mechanism as potentially being a very powerful tool for inner transformation and the awakening of kundalini energy.

How does it happen?

In Vedic tradition, kundalini is described as a dormant evolutionary energy within a person, located at the base of the spine, in the area of the Muladhara chakra.

One of the main obstacles to its upward movement is traditionally described as our rigid ego: the need to control everything, the fear of vulnerability, and constant mental defense.

And this is where I find the connection with submissiveness particularly interesting.

Submissive relationships can affect these blocks through several mechanisms.

The first — the death of the submissive’s need for control

The total surrender of the ego to the Dominant.

When the submissive completely lets go of control and gives it to the Dominant, the part of her mind that is used to controlling everything finally becomes quiet.

The psyche enters a state of being fully present — here and now.

In that moment, it can feel as though the habitual mental armor connected to control, willpower, and constant tension begins to dissolve.

The energy that has been spent for years maintaining control, planning, protecting, and resisting becomes available again.

And this is one of the most fascinating aspects of submission to me.

You do not become weaker.

You simply stop holding yourself together all the time.

The second block — moving through conscious stress

The process of conscious submission almost always involves stepping outside your habitual comfort zone.

It means trusting.

Allowing another person to lead you.

Showing them your vulnerability.

And this is precisely why psychological maturity is so important here.

Submission without awareness can turn into dependency.

But conscious submission is something entirely different.

It is when you understand what you are doing, whom you are trusting, and why you are choosing this particular dynamic.

The third factor — energetic polarity

In Vedic tradition, the interaction between the masculine and feminine principles — Shiva and Shakti — is deeply connected to the movement of kundalini.

The masculine principle represents consciousness and direction.

The feminine represents energy and movement.

In a Dominant/submissive relationship, this polarity can become extremely intense.

The Dominant becomes the directing consciousness.

The submissive becomes the flow of energy.

And when these two polarities meet in absolute trust, the experience of unity can become incredibly powerful.

From a Vedic perspective, this can be imagined as energy moving through sushumna — the central energetic channel of the spine — toward higher states of consciousness.

This is where D/s relationships stop being simply a sexual dynamic for me.

They become a form of deep psychological and spiritual connection.

And what does the Dominant receive?

I think this side of the dynamic is talked about much less.

When we talk about the submissive, it seems obvious what she receives: the ability to let go of control, to feel protected, to be led, to allow herself to become vulnerable.

But the Dominant receives a great deal as well.

First and foremost — enormous trust.

The submissive is essentially saying to him:

“I trust you enough to let you lead me.”

And that is not a small gift.

It is a tremendous responsibility.

The Dominant receives the opportunity to be the person around whom another human being can stop controlling everything.

He gets to be a source of stability.

But at the same time, he takes on the responsibility of remaining that source of stability.

To me, a true Dominant does not simply gain power over a submissive.

He takes responsibility for that power.

If someone gives you control, you must know how to hold it.

If someone trusts you with their vulnerability, you must be mature enough not to use it against them.

If a submissive allows you to make decisions, you must understand the consequences of those decisions.

That is why true dominance, to me, is not:

“I can control you.”

It is more like:

“You trust me enough to give me part of your control. And I have to be worthy of that trust.”

And there is another powerful side to this.

The Dominant receives the submissive’s energy.

Her attention.

Her trust.

Her desire to follow him.

But at the same time, the submissive’s trust forces the Dominant to become stronger, more conscious, and more responsible.

Because you cannot truly lead another person if you do not know where you are going yourself.

In this sense, the Dominant also grows within this kind of union.

He learns to feel another person, understand her boundaries, take responsibility for his decisions, and manage his own power.

And if submissiveness is the art of surrendering, then dominance is the art of receiving that surrender correctly.

What happens on a neurobiological level?

There is an interesting concept called transient hypofrontality.

It refers to a temporary reduction in the activity of certain processes associated with the prefrontal cortex: critical analysis, planning, control, and constant self-monitoring.

Similar states have been studied in the context of meditation, flow, and other altered states of consciousness.

And what I find particularly interesting is that a deep state of surrendering control can subjectively feel very similar: the inner dialogue becomes quieter, the need to control everything disappears, and attention moves completely into the present moment.

What happens to a submissive’s hormones during such a deep surrender?

The body can respond with a complex combination of neurochemical processes associated with pleasure, attachment, arousal, and stress. Endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine, and other systems may all be involved.

This is why, after an intense experience, a person can feel not only physical or emotional arousal, but also deep relaxation, closeness, trust, and a kind of cleansing.

I like to think that the brain and spiritual practices may simply be describing the same human experience through different languages.

When it doesn’t work

There are, of course, distortions.

All of this stops working when a person pretends to be someone they are not.

When a woman forces herself to be submissive because she thinks that is what a man wants.

When a man performs dominance simply for the feeling of power.

When fear is hiding behind words about trust.

For me, this is why absolute psychological maturity is essential.

A true submissive gives up control not from a place of weakness.

She does it from a place of enormous strength and trust.

She is strong and fearless enough to allow herself to surrender.

To allow herself to become vulnerable.

And a true Dominant accepts that surrender not as permission to do whatever he wants, but as an enormous responsibility.

Perhaps this is why I increasingly dislike thinking of “Dominant” and “submissive” simply as sexual roles.

For me, it goes much deeper.

It is a particular way in which two people interact.

One gives up control.

The other accepts it.

One allows herself to be led.

The other takes responsibility for the direction.

One opens herself.

The other becomes the space in which that openness can be held.

And when there is love, respect, maturity, and genuine trust between them, submission stops being humiliation.

It becomes a choice.

And dominance stops being power for the sake of power.

It becomes the ability to hold that power carefully.

There is something incredibly beautiful about a man who knows why he is walking into the darkness.

Maybe that is why I fell in love with Beowulf.

Not because he is strong. There are plenty of strong men. And not even because he knows how to fight — for a hero in an ancient poem, that is almost a given.

What I like is something else.

He hears about a monster — and he goes.

No long explanations. No attempt to convince everyone that he isn’t afraid.

“I am Beowulf. I am going to kill the monster.”

And there is something in that sentence that seems to be disappearing today: the willingness to take danger upon yourself without asking what you will get in return.

They tell him:

“I thought there were no fools left in the world willing to come here and die for our gold.”

And Beowulf answers:

“If I must die — then let it be for glory, not for gold.”

That is where the hero begins for me.

Because a hero is not a man who has no fear.

A hero is a man who does not allow fear to make his decisions for him.

Today I read a funny thought about how some Greg from the neighborhood — a pharmacy worker with three cats — might have become a great warrior in the Viking Age, but would still have been Greg. And that the idea of a hero is supposedly meaningless, except for the posthumous worship that comes afterward.

And I thought: no.

Greg would not have become Beowulf simply because he had been born into another century.

He would have been Greg then, too.

Because an era does not make a man a hero.

A man makes himself a hero.

Great men were great — and there is no reason to be embarrassed to admit it.

And then there are people who especially love explaining why great men do not exist. That heroes are a myth. That circumstances are random. That everything comes down to the gods, genetics, luck, timing, privilege — anything except the man himself.

Perhaps that is much more comfortable.

If heroes are fiction, you never have to ask yourself:

Why not me?

A truly great man will never try to convince you that greatness does not exist.

He will say: become better. Be braver. Do what you are afraid to do.

And the powerless man will laugh at the hero, trying to convince himself that there is nothing that separates them.

But there is.

And perhaps that is exactly why Beowulfs irritate us so much.

They remind us of the version of ourselves we could have become.

The weak say:

“That is the work of the gods.”

The strong answer:

“The gods will not do our work for us.”

And that is why I still love Beowulf.

Not because he kills monsters.

But because when he hears about a monster, he does not start explaining wh

y it cannot be defeated.

He simply goes.

And now tell me:

isn’t it you?

People sometimes ask me, “What does Teke mean?”

I usually give them a short answer:

“Mountain goat.”

But the older I get, the more I realize that those two words carry much more than the name of an animal. They contain the character of my family line, its ideas about strength and justice, memories of wealth that was once almost taken for granted, and a story about losing all of it — and then having to start again from nothing.

Teke is the surname of my family line, a name found across the Caucasus.

If we try to look far back into the past, to a time when belonging to a clan was not simply a matter of having a surname, but a way of knowing who you were, where you came from, and who stood behind you, almost every powerful family had its own symbols, images, and animals with which it identified.

For our family, that animal was the mountain goat — the teke.

And when you think about it, it is a remarkably fitting symbol.

The mountain goat lives where it is difficult for a human being to survive. On steep cliffs, among rocks, at heights where one wrong step can mean death. It is stubborn, resilient, cautious, and capable of going where others would not.

That is how, according to the stories and memory passed down through our family, the men of our line were seen: stubborn, wise, independent, and willing to push forward when circumstances demanded it.

The mountain goat was therefore not simply an animal.

It became a symbol of the family.

Over time, the image of the goat's head — and especially its horns — became more abstract. The horns can be imagined as two lines meeting at a single point, eventually forming the shape of a triangle.

Within our family symbolism, the triangle came to represent strength. It could be used to mark objects, property, buildings, or even military structures, essentially serving as a sign of ownership — a way of saying:

“There is a master here.”

One interpretation of this symbol has always been particularly meaningful to me: strength built upon three foundations — truth, justice, and law.

Three sides of a triangle.

Three principles upon which, according to our family tradition, a man was supposed to stand.

Today, the triangle carries many completely different associations. It appears in alchemy, esoteric traditions, religious symbolism, and countless modern interpretations. Sometimes it is even given an exclusively dark or satanic meaning.

But the triangle itself is neither good nor evil.

It is far older than any of these modern interpretations.

It is simply one of the most fundamental geometric forms — and at the same time a symbol of stability, direction, strength, and hierarchy.

Perhaps that is why it remained so deeply rooted in the memory of my family.

There is another detail that I find particularly fascinating.

In Chechen tradition, we were sometimes referred to as Tek’heta — “a stone fortress.”

Even if we take this not as a literal historical title but as an image, it captures remarkably well the kind of men our ancestors wanted to be: strong, unyielding, and capable of withstanding a blow.

There was also a custom associated with the goat's head.

During a large celebration or feast, the strongest and most respected man could wear an imitation of a goat's head. At that moment, he was given a special status.

He could give others the right to speak, oversee what was happening, intervene when necessary, and exercise an authority that hardly needed to be explained.

I like the idea behind this ritual.

What made a person powerful was not the ability to do whatever he wanted.

Quite the opposite.

His strength was expressed through the fact that **people trusted him with the responsibility of maintaining order.**

There is a profound difference between power and authority.

Power can be given to you.

Authority has to be earned.

---

But my family line was known for more than symbolic strength.

The Teke were also known for their wealth.

They had land, gold, and enormous herds of livestock. They raised cattle and, according to the memories preserved in our family, developed their own breed of bulls — large, powerful animals that themselves became a kind of symbol of prosperity.

In traditional Caucasian society, wealth was not simply about money.

It was livestock.

Land.

A home.

Reputation.

The ability to help your own people.

The ability not to depend on someone else's mercy.

And perhaps that is why material prosperity was so closely intertwined with the idea of masculine strength.

But every family has a moment when its history stops being a family story and becomes part of the history of a country.

For my family, that moment came with the Soviet Union.

The Communist system arrived with its own ideas about property and equality. What had been built by generations of one family was suddenly declared excessive, illegitimate, or belonging to the wrong class.

Our ancestors were dekulakized.

Their property was taken away.

They were sent into exile.

And when they returned, almost nothing remained of the life they had known.

What had been built over generations disappeared in a single historical moment.

And this is where the story of my surname becomes particularly meaningful to me.

Because if the meaning of Teke had been only about wealth, then the story would have ended when the wealth disappeared.

But it didn't.

They came back.

And they started again.

From nothing.

Without the herds.

Without the property.

Without the social position that wealth and reputation had once given them.

What remained was only the surname.

And memory.

And character.

And perhaps this was the moment when the meaning of the word Teke changed for me.

I could simply say that Teke means “mountain goat.”

Now I would rather say:

Teke means someone who knows how to walk on the cliffs.

Someone who is not necessarily the richest, the strongest, or the most influential.

But someone who keeps moving when the road becomes impossible.

In that sense, the story of my surname is not really a story about the past.

It is a story about the ability to survive it.

A mountain goat does not choose the easy path.

It simply lives where there are no easy paths.

And perhaps that is why the image has survived for centuries.

The horns became a symbol.

The symbol became a surname.

The surname became a memory.

And eventually, memory becomes a part of you.

So now, when someone asks me:

“What does Teke mean?”

I no longer want to answer simply:

“Mountain goat.”

I want to say:

“It is the name of my family line. And it is also a reminder that even when everything a person has built is taken away, there is still a way to begin again.”

Books, movies, and comics are full of stories where someone appears at the last moment and fixes everything. Superman. Batman. A wise mentor. A powerful figure who can solve your problems with one phone call.

Without even noticing it, we bring this story into our own lives. We wait for someone who will finally believe in us. A job that will change everything. The perfect moment when life suddenly becomes easier.

But life doesn’t work that way.

No one is coming to save you.

People can support you. They can guide you. They can offer a helping hand. But no one can live your life for you.

And maybe this is one of the hardest lessons of growing up.

You are your own foundation.

You are your own rescuer.

And that’s not a tragedy.

That’s freedom.

But forgot to teach them how to recognize green ones.

Every man is a potential narcissist.

Every relationship is a risk.

Every disagreement is "gaslighting."

Fear gets more engagement than trust ever will.

Somewhere along the way, people started calling this feminism.

But feminism was about equal rights.

Not treating half the population as guilty until proven innocent.

And here's the uncomfortable part:

Women don't just internalize misogyny from men.

They often reinforce it themselves.

Women shame other women for being "too sexual."

Or "not sexual enough."

For wanting marriage.

For not wanting marriage.

For having kids.

For not having kids.

Sometimes the loudest critics of women... are other women.

Social media profits from outrage.

It sells fear to women.

It sells resentment to men.

Then it calls the division "empowerment."

Healthy relationships don't go viral.

Rage does.

Maybe the real revolution isn't choosing a side.

Maybe it's refusing to see the opposite sex as the enemy.

The interview has already begun before you say your first word.

Research has repeatedly shown that attractive people are perceived as more competent, more trustworthy, and even more intelligent. The effect is so strong that we often mistake appearance for character.

Intelligence usually reveals itself over time.

Beauty works instantly.

A brilliant scientist can spend years proving their ideas. A beautiful person can receive opportunities within minutes.

Is that fair?

No.

But fairness has never been the operating system of human nature.

This doesn't mean beauty is morally superior to intelligence.

It means beauty has higher market value in many everyday situations.

People fall in love before they analyze.

Customers buy before they compare.

Voters trust before they investigate.

Even social media has turned beauty into one of the world's most profitable currencies.

Intelligence remains essential for building companies, solving difficult problems, and creating lasting achievements.

But beauty often decides who gets the chance in the first place.

Perhaps the uncomfortable truth isn't that beauty is better than intelligence.

It's that intelligence likes to believe it lives in a meritocracy, while beauty quietly understands that humans have always been emotional creatures pretending to be rational.