The Illusion of Tantra, the Truth I Found in Love
From spiritual highs to real devotion — how I stopped chasing the fantasy and found love in the everyday
The Escape & The Island
In 2018, I was heartbroken. I ran away to an island for healing — little did I know, this wasn’t just any ordinary island. It was a tantric island.
I had no idea. There was even a part of the island where yogis had created a rule: one of the beaches allowed nude swimming. Still, I remained unaware. I didn’t know I had landed on sacred ground — a place soaked in tantra.
When I finally realized where I was, I felt a wave of internal resistance. A part of me wanted to leave — to run again. But something kept me there. I surrendered. I joined in. I stayed to see for myself.
In the midst of rituals, ceremonies, and practices, the veil I had carried — shaped by conventional ideas of love, control, and possession — began to loosen.
I practiced open love. I became intimate with more than one man at a time. I even participated in Tantra Temple Night. I let go of what I thought love was “supposed” to be, and instead, let love meet me in any form it chose.
That year was incredible — the juiciest of my life. My mind released its grip on conventional love and opened to something new: tantric love. I prayed for a tantric man — a man who worships at the altar, who believes in devotion. And when I thought I found him, I believed: This is it. This is perfect love.
The Illusion of Tantric Love & Awakening to the Truth
But illusion doesn’t always show up in the same costume.
At one point, I even said I had manifested a tantric man — a teacher, no less. I fantasized about the idea of them. But over time, I realized: most tantric men were just… men. Dressed in new words. Embodying a form of love, but not its essence.
Many of those men were miserable. They hid behind the altar. They performed devotion but didn’t embody it. Their lives weren’t drenched in love — only in the illusion of worship.
That was my awakening: embodiment is not decoration.
It’s not in rituals, or words, or titles. It’s in how someone breathes, listens, chooses — especially when no one’s watching.
On the island, the ideal of freedom and equality often replaced the reality of love and responsibility.
The kind of man most often found there was the man who wanted “freedom.” The man who claimed equality — which really meant: you pay half. Half rent. Half meals. Half responsibility. Full freedom for them. That’s it.
I tried to connect with the essence of these men, and maybe I did see some light. But I couldn’t attach — not because I was more spiritual, but because my body knew: This isn’t safe.
They weren’t committed to relationship. They were committed to idealism. To the idea of “tantric love.” But once love fell outside the tantric framework, no one stayed — not the men, not even the women. They weren’t committed to people. They were committed to a concept.
It looked like equality. It was convenience.
It looked like freedom. It was escape.
And essence without commitment is just a glimpse — not a foundation.
This isn’t just my story.
So many women who came to that island for healing fell into the same trance. Under the glow of tantra workshops, they mistook lovers for gods. They saw “divine union” in the rituals.
But when the form dissolved, so did the fantasy. And heartbreak followed.
We traded one illusion for another: first, conventional love — shaped by control, possession, and “forever.” Then, spiritual love — shaped by altars, sacred words, and performance.
Each time, it looked like freedom.
Each time, it was still a cage.
And I’m relieved I didn’t get stuck in it. I lived inside it just long enough to know it — and then I walked out, with eyes open.
In spiritual circles, astrology, “patterns,” and signs often become sacred frameworks. But let’s be honest — they’re just like personality tests in conventional dating.
Useful? Sometimes.
Truth? Not always.
They can offer insight, but they can’t replace lived experience.
Too often, these tools become excuses to override our boundaries. Even women who teach Tantra or boundaries sometimes forget them when love enters the room. They surrender to signs instead of truth. They accept poor treatment and call it “divine.”
They spiritualize pain: “It’s a lesson.” “He’s my twin flame.” “The universe sent him.”
But often, it’s just limerence — obsession born from old wounds. I know, because I lived that way too.
What triggers me most isn’t longing — it’s blindness. When someone teaches loudly but can’t see their own shadow. That dissonance — between public light and private truth — is dangerous.
And yes, I’ve been that person. Fiery. Certain. Newly awakened. I thought I had the truth and judged those who didn’t. I wasn’t malicious — I was just young in my awakening.
Now, when I see others doing the same, I’m not just reacting to them — I’m seeing my old self. It’s like watching my past skin walk around on someone else. I cringe, but I also understand. It once kept me warm.
Meeting My Husband — Tantra in Daily Life
Then I met my husband.
All the guards fell. He didn’t know the word “tantra.” He didn’t speak a spiritual language. He never set an altar. He gets dizzy doing yoga. He struggles to sit cross-legged. In every way, he was not “that kind of man.”
But in essence, he was that man.
He embodied tantra — not through rituals or words, but through grounded love. He protects. He provides. He shows up — especially in conflict. When I get stuck in my ego, he’s the one who softens first, asks the question that breaks the walls.
In our hardest moments, he looks into my eyes and says:
“What can I do to make this better?”
He initiates the healing — not from a script, not from a workshop, but from his soul. In his presence, I see the divine. No incense, no candles. Just truth — alive in the real world.
While many “spiritual men” use teachings as weapons in conflict, he uses presence.
He doesn’t back down when things get hard.
I’ve seen so many tantric teachers — especially women — still struggle with this. Their identities get wrapped in the form. They teach others, but can’t see their own patterns. Love becomes a performance: aligned charts, cosmic matches, sacred ideals. It looks like depth, but it’s often romantic idealism dressed in spiritual robes.
But true love isn’t in the stars. It’s in time and action.
A “tantric man” doesn’t always live in a tantric community. He could be anywhere — working 9-5, raising kids, rooted in real life. He might never say a Sanskrit prayer, but he lives his devotion through action. That’s the one. That’s love.
Unblind yourself from the concept — and you might find him.
Koh Phangan & The Grief of Letting Go
When I lived in Koh Phangan, I was consumed by love. Not with one man — with many. Love was everywhere. Fast. Dramatic. Magical. One high after another. One fantasy after the next.
I told myself I was learning non-attachment. That I was free. But really, I was addicted to the high. And when I left, I grieved — deeply.
Now, I can’t feel the same way. I’ve seen through it. I no longer live in fantasy. And sometimes, I miss it. I feel jealousy when I see someone still dancing in that space.
But I also feel relief. Because I’m not lost anymore.
It’s like grieving a version of myself that once lived in technicolor romance — while honoring that I’ve matured into someone who can build, create, and sustain.
Devotion to God — The Romance
Back then, I didn’t just love men — I loved God. I wasn’t raised with God. I was Buddhist. But heartbreak cracked me open, and I surrendered to something bigger.
God became a romance. I sang. I cried. I lit candles. I prayed every morning:
“Use me, Lord. Let me see the world through your eyes. Let me hear your words. Let me speak your words.”
It gave me beauty. Songs. Prayers. Longing. The sense that someone almighty was choosing me, guiding me, carrying me.
And I was in love.
The Loss — From God to Self
Then came the deeper truth: God was never outside of me. God was me.
And suddenly, the romance dissolved. Not because it wasn’t real — but because it was time to grow.
How do you long for yourself? How do you light incense to your own body? How do you cry to the mirror?
It was easier when God was outside. He could be perfect. Flawless. Everything I wasn’t. But now, devotion turns inward. And it’s quieter. Harder. Because I am not always perfect. And yet… this is the truth:
There is no savior but me.
I lost the devotional romance —
But I gained something real:
The power to navigate my life without waiting for a sign or an alignment from the stars.
Now, the devotion is to myself.
To the fiery goddess — the one who holds anger, jealousy, joy, tenderness. Who doesn’t hide. Who doesn’t apologize. Who is whole.
Devotion to Self
So yes — the trigger I had toward the tantric community was also about grief.
Grief for the version of me who longed for men. Who longed for God. Who felt chosen, uplifted, romanticized. Who cried songs of surrender. Who felt magnetic and special through the eyes of someone else — man or God.
And yes, it was beautiful. And now… I don’t want to go back.
The true devotion now is to myself.
Not the polished saint — but the fierce, full goddess within me.
And it’s harder — because she’s not separate.
She is me.
And yes, sometimes it’s hard to believe:
I am that magnetic. I am that special.
I choose myself.
That’s the work now.
Not to be chosen — but to choose myself.
To see myself as worthy of the devotion I once gave away so freely.
It’s Okay
And with all that said — I feel clarity.
The jealousy fades.
The grief softens.
That part of my life was beautiful.
I don’t want to go back, but I can honor it.
And it’s okay if others are still living there.
It’s not my job to fix them.
That version of love gave me joy. It gave me magic.
And now, I walk with that memory —
Not as a cage. But as a chapter.