Bagalamukhi is my bodyguard

On self-defense and violence

Holy shit has Bagalamukhi been here for me recently. Before I tell you more about this badass tantric queen, let me share a story.

It was my first morning in Mexico—day one of 45 days of solo international travel. I was walking down a quiet, peaceful street in Tulum around 11 a.m. The neighborhood, Aldea Zama, was familiar to me—a place I’d stayed twice before, known for its safety and serenity.

To my left was dense jungle, to my right a road with intermittent cars. Ten minutes into my walk from my BnB, I noticed a man in a black t-shirt walking on the opposite side of the street, gazing at me. My spidey senses immediately flared. A clear, commanding voice spoke in my head:

“Take out your water bottle. This will be your weapon.”

Without hesitation, I pulled out my full 32oz stainless steel water bottle and slung my bag securely across my body. The clarity of that moment was stunning—like a lake without ripples, unpolluted and pristine.

As I walked on, I took in my surroundings: a shuttle driver wiping down his van, vibrant orange butterflies flitting across lush green. I made deliberate eye contact with the driver and smiled. Beneath this calm observance, I was tracking the man. He was behind me at one point, then somewhere I couldn’t see.

Eventually, the street got quieter, and the voice returned:

“This would be a good time for him to do it.”

At this point, I wasn’t afraid; I was alert, curious, and anticipating. Moments later, I saw him again, crossing the street toward me. His movements were hurried in my direction, yet his face was turned away. Then, with sudden intention, he turned to face me from six feet away and revealed a knife.

I heard the metallic flick of the blade, and I immediately started screaming as I swung my heavy water bottle at his face. It made contact with a thud against his jaw. He knocked the bottle from my hand and tugged at my bag, but couldn’t free it. He tried to grab my phone, but I gripped it tighter. I kicked at him but lost my balance and fell. My screams grew louder. His expression perhaps mirrored mine—fearful.

A motorcycle roared to a stop nearby, and the man ran away into the jungle.

The couple on the motorcycle, a man and woman, came to my aid. The man called the policia to report the assailant. The woman, Glady, said, “Lo siento” with care as she examined the scratches on my arms and back. She offered me warm embrace and her hug was all I needed in that moment. She anointed me with eucalyptus oil, inviting me to take deep breaths. Her presence anchored me in the adrenaline and awe.

Another man, Jorge, heard my screams while jogging and offered to walk me the rest of the way. As we walked, he affirmed my intuition and shared his shock—as a Mexican living in Tulum for years, he had never seen anything like this. He told me my story would be a cautionary tale for his friends.

Now, back to Bagalamukhi.

Bagalamukhi is one of the Dasha Mahavidyas—the ten tantric goddesses, alongside Kali, Tara, and Chhinnamasta among others. Bagalamukhi wields a cudgel in one hand, symbolizing her power to paralyze, stun, or silence negative forces. In her other hand, she holds the tongue of a demon, embodying the ability to cease harmful speech, action, and thought.

Two weeks before this experience in Mexico, we sat with Bagalamukhi during the Embodying Shakti Series. In her presence, we were confronted with deep questions:

• When is violence justified?

• When does it perpetuate harm?

• When does self-defense become oppressive?

As someone whose life and work are rooted in stewarding peace, I struggled to resonate with Bagalamukhi. I didn’t know her within myself—until this moment in Tulum.

I swung that water bottle so hard at this man’s head with zero apprehension. Of course in the moment, I was afraid he would stab me; but in hindsight, I see that he wasn’t trying to use the knife. So as I processed the event, my act of force—swift and unthinking—created a cognitive dissonance in me.

At some point, Bagalamukhi’s name arose in my consciousness. I realized, with astonishment, that she had been with me all along, guiding my intuition and embodying her fierce archetype within me.

I was moved to revisit this drawing I made of her in 2020, where I labeled the demon she silences as “white supremacy and patriarchy.” Yet the man who tried to rob me was no patriarch—he was a short, brown-skinned Mexican man, a mirror of the oppressed, not the oppressor. His life, I imagined, was filled with suffering—possibly worsened by white supremacist, capitalist, and patriarchal systems. And then there was my privilege of bringing U.S. dollars to Tulum for organic vegan breakfasts and air-conditioned lodgings, that likely came at a cost to people like him.

These reckonings brought waves of grief, guilt, and remorse for having harmed him. At the same time, I can’t deny the sheer clarity of my intuitive voice, the divine force that told me to act and defend. Bagalamukhi’s cudgel was my steel bottle in that moment. The realities of harm AND the clarity of defense to protect what is sacred to me obliterates any clear-cut binary of “right” or “wrong,” I think of all those who are defending their land, lineage and life-force. Perhaps no one can truly judge the “rightness” of their actions until they themselves are thrust into a moment where survival demands a primal clarity and instinctual purpose to protect.

This experience reminds me of Luigi Mangione, whose story encapsulates the tangled relationship between violence and justice. Mangione, now a folk hero as the “CEO assassin,” has sparked fierce debate and admiration among those who have experienced similar oppression, unveiling the active desperation that arises when systems of care fail the people they’re supposed to serve. I get this, there’s not a lot more that boils rage in me like the sheer inhumanity and extraction of our “healthcare” system. Like Bagalamukhi’s cudgel, Luigi’s actions stunned us all, revealing the demons of corrupt, imbalanced systems, and the necessity to Bagalamukhi the shit out of it. Yet, it still brings up questions about who the “demon” really is and how do we paralyze it at the root. When does self-defense redeem or restore? And when does it feed the very cycles of harm we seek to end?

Holding these complex, unanswered contemplations and my experience itself feel like an initiation into a fuller more honest expression of humanness in these times. Later that day, Jorge texted me saying, "After living an experience as strong as the one you just went through, life has prepared you for something very special on the way. Patience is a gift." I held his words close to me until I started to feel myself again. Since that day, my journey in Mexico and now Bali has been so blessed—filled with connection, magic, and even more awe. Are violence and justice, pain and ease, freedom and oppression inseparable?

As we navigate severe polarity and vast uncertainty existentially, may we all be protected by the power of our voices and our everyday tools. May we be held lovingly by people like Glady and Jorge. May fierce divine forces, like Bagalamukhi, be embodied through us now.

Dear reader, have you ever felt your intuition so clear and present? Have you been protected in ways beyond logic? How are you grappling with the interplay of violence and justice? I’d love to hear more in the comments.

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