What Embodying The Dominatrix Taught Me About Leadership, Authority, and Love

It was the kind of July heat that clings to your skin, pressing into you like a weight. I stepped off the plane in Denver, the ground shimmering with trapped sunlight, the air thick and heavy enough to feel alive. By the time I made my way to the small mountain town where the workshop was being held, I was still unsure of what, exactly, I had agreed to.

The invitation had arrived unexpectedly—a text from a friend leading a personal development workshop rooted in the teachings of David Deida, a teacher known for exploring masculine and feminine energetics in a way that merges the spiritual and the earthly. “I’m one woman short,” my friend had written. “I would love to have you as my guest.”

At the time, my life was in freefall. I had just been forced out of my home in Los Angeles by toxic mold, temporarily living out of a friend’s guest room. I felt unmoored—not just personally, but in my sense of self. I had always prided myself on being decisive, capable, a leader in my own right. But now, I felt like I was floating, uncertain of where my power began and ended. When I received the workshop invitation, I wasn’t looking for transformation. But, as I would soon learn, true leadership isn’t just about decisiveness or control—it’s about presence, trust, and the ability to hold space for others.

Stepping into the Unknown

The workshop was devoted to embodiment and interpersonal energy. By morning, we explored archetypes—sweet kitten, seething volcano—testing the edges of our own expression. By noon, we’d shed a few layers of self-consciousness; and this afternoon, we were ready to dive into the deeper corners of ourselves—the places Carl Jung might have called the “shadow.”

I stepped into the softly lit room, the air thick with the murmurs of low voices and the scent of incense curling through the space, as yogic chant music mixed with the faint creak of shifting metal chairs. Scattered throughout were small clusters of four—two men, two women—each of us settling into our respective circles, feet planted on the wooden floor. This was where the real work began.

The exercise was deceptively simple yet intensely confronting: choose an archetype that challenges you, something that feels foreign or forbidden, and embody it fully.

I had always been afraid of my own power. Like many women, I had been conditioned to believe that dominance, assertiveness, control—these were traits that made me undesirable, unlovable. I feared that if I owned too much of my space, I would either attract men I couldn’t respect or repel the ones I could. My whole life, I had danced around my authority, careful not to let it take up too much room.

My heart pounded. My instinct was to choose something softer, something that would make me feel safe—grace, charm, something pleasant. Instead, I looked down at my bare feet and my Barbie-pink cotton sundress: a costume of perpetual softness, designed to mask any hint of steel. It was time to peel away that protective, candy-coated shell.

The words came before I could stop them:

“I want to embody the dominatrix,” I whispered, eyes locked on my bare feet. My cotton-candy toenails stared back mockingly, but no one else flinched.

The woman across from me, a striking brunette with snake tattoos dancing across her wrists and fingers, broke into a smile. “Oh, girl,” she said. “I can help you with that.”

She was, it turned out, a professional dominatrix.

Power Is Not What We Think It Is

Popular culture often frames the dominatrix as the one in ultimate control. In truth, real power lies with the submissive, who sets the boundaries and decides how far the scenario can go. The dominatrix isn’t a tyrant—she is a facilitator of trust, the architect of a structured space where surrender can happen. In leadership, we often mistake control for strength. But the best leaders—whether in a boardroom, a movement, or a relationship—don’t dictate; they create the conditions for others to thrive. They set the container, establish trust, and guide with a firm but open hand.

The men in my group, well-versed in this energy work, challenged me: push them until they raised their hands, signaling they'd reached their limit.

I failed.

I could not bring myself to push them that far. I have spent my life trying to make others comfortable, easing tension, keeping the peace. To step into this energy fully—to demand, to command—felt unnatural, almost unbearable.

But I tried.

I squared my shoulders. I let my voice drop into something lower, more commanding. I circled slowly around them. I sank into the phantom weight of my invisible stiletto boot punctuating each step. Each time I wanted to break into a girlish giggle, I would channel my inner Wendy Rhoades from Billions, tasting authority in a way that felt both foreign and exhilarating. And as I did, I felt a war inside me. My mind whispered that I was being cruel. My body insisted I was tapping into a dormant force. My partners, meanwhile, beamed at me with surprisingly joyful smiles, urging me onward.

When the exercise ended, I collapsed into tears.

Not delicate, glistening tears, but the kind that crumple your face, shake your chest, and refuse to stop. The kind that rearrange something inside you, washing over your shadow like a wave, leaving it quiet on the shore.

The people in my group held me, their hands grounding me as I sobbed into my pink dress. I had not expected this.

But what I realized, in the aftermath of my unraveling, was that domination—true domination—cannot come from a closed heart.

Authority and Love Can Coexist

Something in me cracked open that day. The experience I had feared—the stepping into a forceful, authoritative role—had not hardened me.

It had softened me.

It had deepened my understanding of love itself.

In the days that followed, I found myself reflecting on the deeper meaning of this exercise. The world often conflates power with cruelty. Government leaders who govern with coldness, or relationships where someone wields control like a weapon—these are, unfortunately, familiar examples. But I discovered something else: true authority does not have to be cold. The best leaders aren’t the ones who exert control for control’s sake, but the ones who create a framework where others can do their best work, where trust replaces fear. A dominatrix, at her best, isn’t there to overpower—she’s there to guide. And great leaders do the same: they hold firm boundaries not out of ego, but out of care.

The dominatrix archetype isn’t about selfish domination at all. She’s the guardian of an experience, the architect of a structured space where another can surrender. Her discipline is not indifference—it’s protection.

I began to apply this understanding to my everyday life. I thought about my dog, Dolly, and how fiercely I want to keep her safe. If she runs toward a busy street, I don’t softly whisper “Come back”; I yell, I command, I dominate. Not from a place of anger, but from a place of love so big it demands action. The same is true of a child reaching for a hot stove: in that moment, the parent’s authority is not cruel but protective, an urgent “no” that can save a life.

True authority is not about controlling others—it’s about protecting, guiding, and holding space. Authority rooted in love becomes a command, a clear presence rather than coercive force.

The Takeaway

Since that workshop, I have carried this lesson into every aspect of my life. I no longer mistake softness for weakness, nor do I conflate power with control. Instead, I see authority as something that can be both firm and fluid, both directive and deeply compassionate.

In the months since, this insight has reshaped my work, relationships, and the way I set goals and honor my time. I’ve learned that structure, imposed from a wide-open heart, can give you the freedom to explore, to trust, to let go. In a sense, I’ve become a “dominatrix” with myself— lovingly but firmly clarifying what I permit in my life.

We often think of power as something separate from love. In reality, the best leadership requires both. Authority without compassion breeds fear; compassion without authority breeds chaos. The strongest leaders—whether in business, politics, or relationships—are the ones who understand how to wield power with care. The dominatrix archetype may seem like an unlikely teacher, but she reveals something essential: leadership is not about dominance, but about holding space, guiding with intention, and creating the conditions where trust and transformation can occur.

My tears that day were a release of old conditioning—beliefs that owning my power would make me unlovable. Yet in experiencing it, in holding that authority with care, I discovered a new dimension of my capacity for love. Because sometimes the kindest act is standing unwaveringly in our truth. Often, the safest space for surrender is held by loving firmness.

Learning to embody both benevolence and dominance has reshaped my relationship with surrender to Life itself. I have come to trust that structure and authority, when wielded with love, do not constrain freedom—they create the conditions for deeper trust, for letting go into something greater than myself. In embracing both, I have found a new way to surrender to the unknown, knowing that even in uncertainty, there can be something strong and kind enough to hold it all.

Most importantly, I learned that power is not the absence of love.

The best power is love—intentional, generous, and wielded with an open heart.