The Practice of Power

On leaving the comfort of powerlessness and learning to stand in truth

So much can be said about power, and about our relationship to it. I feel, as a species, we are still at the very beginning of understanding how to truly own it, how to root it in love, how to wield it with care, how to live it without fear.

When I look at power archetypally, I see two familiar figures: the victim and the perpetrator. The victim is powerless. The perpetrator holds power. And if I’m honest, most of us have far more experience identifying with the victim. We know what it is to give our power away, to trade it for love, for belonging, for safety.

There is a strange comfort in that place. A quiet relief in not having to choose, not having to risk, not having to stand alone. The relief of never having to be “the bad guy” in the movie.

So when we begin to realize that we are not just passive participants in life, but creators of it, that we are responsible, in the deepest sense, with the ability to respond, something unsettling happens. We realize that we can leave. That we can say no. That we can change everything.

And right underneath that realization comes fear.

Fear of hurting others.
Fear of being rejected.
Fear of being misunderstood, projected upon, or left behind because we dared to step into something bigger than who we used to be.

Learning to hold power is not a clean process. It is messy, humbling, and deeply human. It reminds me of learning how to ride a bike. You will fall, again and again. You might even hurt yourself or others along the way. But if you have the will to keep getting back on, eventually something shifts. The movement becomes smoother. The fear softens. Confidence grows quietly, almost without you noticing.

My own journey with power has been anything but linear.

I know what it is to feel powerless. To give myself away in exchange for acceptance. To shrink so I could belong. And then, when I began to reclaim my power, I swung to the other extreme. I needed it to be seen. I needed others to recognize it, to validate it. I wanted to prove that I had it, to make it undeniable. I’d roar like a lion if I had to.

Underneath that was fear.

Fear that it could be taken from me again. Fear of misusing it.
Fear that if I didn’t protect it, I would lose it.

I treated power as if it were scarce. As if there wasn’t enough to go around. We do the same with love by the way, but I’ll leave that for another day.

Over time, something inside me softened.

I began to understand that power isn’t something you perform. It isn’t in how loud you are, or how much space you take, or how convincingly you can prove yourself. Power is stronger than that. It lives in your way of being. In your clarity. In your willingness to stand in truth without needing an applause. In your willingness to trust yourself and take more risks.

And with that understanding came a deeper responsibility.

Because real power asks a lot of you. It asks you to make difficult choices. To end things that are no longer aligned. To let go of relationships, identities, and versions of yourself you once loved. To wield the sword, not in aggression, but in honesty.

I still struggle with that.

It is not easy for me to walk away from what I care about. It is not easy to say the hard thing, to risk being misunderstood, to choose truth over harmony. Sometimes I stay longer than I should. Sometimes I soften my voice. Sometimes I give my power away in subtle, almost invisible ways.

And often, I don’t even notice it at first.

When I do, I try to meet myself with curiosity instead of judgment. I ask: what was I protecting? What discomfort was I avoiding? Because there is always a reason, even if it no longer serves me.

And yes, sometimes I get the words wrong. Sometimes the timing is off. Sometimes I hurt people, or myself, in the process of learning.

And still, I choose the path of empowerment, of leadership and of love.

I choose to keep reclaiming my power.
I choose to learn how to hold it with compassion.
I choose to speak with truth, even when my voice shakes.
I choose to return to myself, again and again.

Because I am beginning to understand that power is not something you arrive at once and for all. It is something you practice. Something you refine. Something you come back to, every single day.

And maybe real power is not about never falling, never doubting, never getting it wrong.

Maybe real power is this:

To notice when you have abandoned yourself…
and have the courage to come home.

Again. And again. And again.

Into the Bones,

Marianna