Beneath the Armor
Remembering the Essence That Always Was

Deep, raw connection.

Is this what we are truly craving?

Human connection?
Tribe?
Community?
Safe spaces?
Nature immersion?
To be seen, heard, and held?
Alignment?
Coherence?
Belonging?
Clarity?
Purpose?

The list could continue endlessly.

Yet have we considered that perhaps all of this already exists within us?

The more we allow connection within ourselves—to the very Essence of Being that we are, in all of our depths—the more we begin to witness it outwardly.

We attract what we embody.
We witness outside of us what lives within us.

Have you noticed what you have been witnessing lately?

Have you REALLY taken the deep dive inward?

"As above, so below."
"As within, so without."

These are not merely phrases to be admired or idealized.

They are invitations into EMBODIMENT.

Take a deep dive into YOU.

I invite you into a discovery of the childhood narratives and stories that became your reality, yet may not hold the deepest TRUTH of who you are.

Allow me to share my own personal discovery.

In a recent exploration of the narratives that shaped my previous Persona—my Personality Identity, what I later realized was my Separate Identity Self, the one that has experienced many deaths and rebirths—I uncovered something simple and profound:

"I am too much."

The name "Terrible Terri" was coined when I was very young.

I was "too much."

Too much for many people to handle.

I talked “A LOT.”

I carried a spice for life that was full of inquiry and curiosity.

I asked “SO MANY” questions because I sensed that much of what was being presented to me as truth was not truth for me.

I knew the stories I was told over and over, often carrying an energy beneath them of:

"Just accept it because I said so."

Yet there was no resonance within me.

There was a physical sensation steeped in awareness that something felt untrue.

At a young age I did not know what this meant.

I only FELT it.

And as I was conditioned not to FEEL my feelings—as many of us were in various ways—we began creating armor, a shell.

Layer by layer.

As children, and as humanity, many of us learn to adapt ourselves in order to belong.

We inherit stories.
We absorb conditioning.
We create survival mechanisms.

Not because we are broken.

Because we are human.

Because belonging once meant survival.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned to shrink ourselves.

We learned to abandon pieces of ourselves in order to fit within the tribe—family, classmates, institutions, neighborhoods, communities.

Layer by layer, armor formed.

Until those layers became woven into the very fabric of our identity.

Into our tissues.
Into our cells.
Into our emotions.
Into our psyches.

The armor becomes so familiar that we begin to mistake it for who we are.

Yet beneath it all, Essence remains.

Waiting.
Breathing.
Remembering.

This is not new energy.

This reaches deeply into our human experience.

Somewhere within our collective memory exists the understanding that survival once depended upon belonging.

That if we did not prove our value to the tribe, we risked being cast out.

And so we learned.
We adapted.
We became who we thought we needed to become.

Here was my journey of creating a Personality Identity—in highlights.

Ultimately:

I was told I was too much.
I was told to be quiet.
I was told to stop talking.
I was told to stop asking so many questions.
I was told to not activate others’ feelings.
I was told not to express emotions.

My resulting narratives became:

"I am not safe to be me."
"I am not safe to be free."

Using the 3, 7-year developmental cycles looked at in Gene Keys™, I can see the patterns more clearly now.

0–7 years of age — figuratively, I entered a shell.
8–14 years of age — literally, I wore a shell.
15–21 years of age — I attempted to free myself. To gain freedom. To be me. To rebel. To find independence.

Then abuse returned me to the shell.

"I am not safe to be me."
"I am not safe to be free."

As I reflect now, I can see the symbolism and patterns that were present throughout my journey.

My first shell was figurative.

It formed as armor against perceived rejection.

I carried the wound of rejection within the tribes closest to me, and somewhere within me came an interpretation:

"I am not free to be me."

So I adapted.

I learned to become versions of myself that felt more comfortable for others.

I learned to pretend rejection was not painful.

I learned to shape-shift.

I learned to armor.

Then life reflected another shell back to me.

I developed scoliosis and eventually wore a back brace that physically constricted movement and growth, requiring me to learn an entirely different way of moving through life.

Looking back, I also experienced shock therapy, and today I can see the symbolic resonance that exists for me—not as blame, not as causation, but as reflection.

I spent much of my young life experiencing internal shock.

Shock from not feeling accepted as I was.
Shock from rejection.
Shock from feeling different.

As a young adult, before even reaching twenty-one, I experienced physical abuse within a relationship.

Again, I returned to the familiar narratives:

"It is not safe to be me."
"It is not safe to be free."

I share these experiences not as evidence that life punishes us, nor that we create hardship as fault or failure.

I share them because I have come to witness how deeply our internal narratives can shape the ways we move through life.

Many of us learn survival before we learn freedom.

Many of us build realities around protection before remembering truth.

Yet beneath every adaptation, every shell, every survival mechanism, there remains something untouched.

We are not separate.
We are whole.
We are Essence of Being—Source expressing in form.

And perhaps life continuously presents opportunities—not to prove our separation—but to reveal where freedom has always been waiting beneath the armor.

In my early 30s, the man I married became a different version of himself—a beautiful soul entering his own deep journey into shadow, childhood narratives, and transformation.

Although it was sacred and necessary, I interpreted it through my existing lens:

"I am not safe to be me."
"I am not safe to be free."

His emotional state became precarious.

Eventually his physical health followed.

As I reviewed my own journey and patterns, I realized something profound.

I grew up with physical and financial safety.

Yet mental and emotional safety often felt like something I had to create for myself.

Then, as my husband became ill and life changed dramatically, it felt as though creating physical and financial safety had become my responsibility as well.

"It is all up to me."

The narrative expanded.

The feeling of not being safe expanded with it.

I became the caregiver.
I became the provider.

My "I am too much" slowly became:

"This is too much."

I was living in survival mode.

Through a long and sacred journey, I began remembering myself.

I learned to know myself.
To allow myself.
To accept myself.
To be myself.
To embrace myself.

My mantra became:

"Be Me, Be Free."

I learned to deeply love my separate identity.

She became my closest companion.
My best friend.
My confidant.
My strength.

The truest version of me I had known at that point.

And then one day, I knew with absolute clarity:

She was leaving.

"If you love something, set it free."

And so I did.

I set her free.

There was a death of the Separate Identity Self.

It was not pretty.

It was brutal.

The grief was unlike anything I had ever known.

There were moments that felt like dying over and over again.

And then...

She did not disappear.

She became whole.

She became free.

What I had called "her/she" had never truly been lost.

It was the TRUTH that had always existed beneath the armor.

Essence of Being.

The birthright that had patiently waited beneath every layer.

Safety no longer arrived through control.

Safety arrived through trust.

Trust in life itself.
Trust in faith.
Trust in flow.

So now I create and hold space—for Self and for humanity—to remember:

It is safe to be.
It is safe to be free.
It is safe to return home.

What was my foundation?

This became the doorway of my contemplation.

And what I discovered was this:

My foundation was never the armor.
It was never the narratives.
It was never survival.

My foundation had always been Essence itself.

Waiting patiently beneath it all.

Terri Akaya Malek