Reclaiming Power Through Self-Love and Healing

May 29
3 min read

By Karolina Krzysztofik

I grew up watching strong women.

My mother has always been a force — working, managing the home, and, despite limited financial resources, always striving to make things better. I’ll never forget the image of her before Christmas Eve, standing on a ladder painting the ceiling to make our home feel beautiful.

My grandmother was the same. When she moved apartments, she pushed heavy wooden furniture across town in a wheelbarrow — not because no one could help, but because she didn’t want to bother anyone.

This was the kind of strength I inherited: silent, resilient, self-reliant.

You carry on. You don’t ask for help. You give endlessly — and rarely pause to receive.

As a child, I already embodied that pattern. Even as a toddler, I wanted to tie my own shoes and do things myself. I wore independence like a badge of honour. But I was also deeply sensitive. Today, we might say I was a natural empath. I didn’t have that language back then — all I knew was that I could feel everything, and that the emotional chaos of the outside world often left me overwhelmed and exhausted.

I thought my sensitivity was a weakness. That to be strong, I had to achieve and thrive — without fuss or drama. That mindset served me well in many ways. It helped me chase dreams, reach goals, and build a life.

But something softer got left behind.

I didn’t know how to receive. I didn’t know how to prioritise my needs or be truly vulnerable. I swallowed my emotions and wore the “strong one” mask, silently overwhelmed and emotionally disconnected from my own need for safety and care. I truly believed that strength meant doing everything on my own.

But the body doesn’t lie.

And it always keeps score.

As a teenager, my health began to collapse. I went from a joyful, curious girl to a pale, sickly teen who couldn’t sleep or digest food. My stomach — my second brain — was in constant pain. While doctors searched for physical causes, I instinctively knew the root was emotional. Something inside me was deeply out of balance.

One of the first breakthroughs came unexpectedly. I was 14 or 15 when I found a book by Raymond Moody. Inside was a simple self-hypnosis script. I gave it a try. To my surprise, my body softened. I finally slept.

At that moment, a door opened: If this can help me sleep… what else is possible?

That question started my journey.

I immersed myself in yoga, meditation, and countless healing modalities. I became my own experiment and along the way, I discovered something revolutionary:

True strength isn’t about independence. It’s about balance.

It’s about creating space for yourself — the kind of space where you can hold yourself the way a mother holds a child. Without judgment. With unconditional acceptance. That’s where healing begins. That’s where real power lives.

Real strength lies in how we meet our own tenderness — not to fix or suppress, but to witness with compassion.

Healing isn’t always pretty.

There were days I cried for hours, releasing years of grief and anger. But each tear and kind word I offered myself was a step toward reclaiming my power.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

Strength isn’t doing everything alone.
Self-love isn’t a bubble bath. It’s radical honesty. It’s facing the parts of yourself you’ve hidden — your old wounds, your unspoken pain — and saying: “I see you. I love you. I’m here.”
Balance is sacred.

One of the most transformative discoveries on my journey has been returning to my body and listening to my heart — not the heart of romance and drama, but the heart as a seat of calm, presence, and truth.

Whenever I tune in to my heart, I quiet the critical mind and reconnect with a wiser voice within.

Today, I guide other women through that same journey — using RTT, meditation, and subconscious work to help them come home to themselves.

Now, when I work with other women, I often ask:

👉 What if you took care of yourself the way you take care of everyone else?

Because when one woman reclaims her power through love, she becomes a lighthouse.

And lighthouses don’t run around saving ships.

They simply shine — so others can find their way.

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