The Hidden Queen
The Story of Esther, In Her Own Words
I was never meant to be a queen.
I was Hadassah, a child of exile, raised among my people in the land of Persia. My days were simple, woven with prayers whispered at dawn, the scent of myrrh and spices in the market, and the hush of sacred stories passed from mother to daughter. I lived in the shadow of our past glory, in a world where we had no temple, no home, only the promise that our God had not forgotten us.
But exile teaches a woman how to listen: to the unspoken, to the hidden, to the voice that calls even when all else is silent.
And then, the summons came.
The king of Persia, Ahasuerus, had cast aside his queen. His court sought maidens from every province, young women to be gathered into the palace, prepared for the pleasure of a ruler who held feasts that lasted for months and made decrees on a whim. It was a world I did not belong to, a world I had no desire to enter. But when the king’s men came, I did not resist.
Mordechai, my father’s brother, the man who had raised me, whispered only one command as I was led away: “Tell no one who you are.”
I did not understand then. But I obeyed.
For a year, I was bathed in oils and perfumes, my body softened with ointments, my hair scented with frankincense. The other women, adorned in silks, spoke of their futures, of gold, of power, of catching the king’s eye. But I did not speak. I listened.
And then, my night came.
When I entered the king’s chamber, I did not ask for jewels, nor did I seek to impress him with the ways of the palace. I carried only what I had been given, only what was within me. He looked at me, and something unseen passed between us.
He placed the crown upon my head.
Esther. They called me Esther, a name that means “hidden.” And so I remained a queen concealed, a daughter of Israel veiled beneath the gold of Persia.
It happened quickly.
A man named Haman, drunk with power, sought the destruction of my people. He wove his venomous words into the king’s ear, sealed his hatred with the king’s own signet ring. A decree was sent through the empire: On the thirteenth day of the month of Adar, every Jew—man, woman, and child—was to be slaughtered.
Mordechai came to me then, standing at the gates in sackcloth and ashes, his voice carrying the weight of our ancestors.
“Do not think you will escape,” he told me. “Perhaps you were placed here for such a time as this.”
The words struck me like a blade.
I had concealed my name. My lineage. My blood. But the moment had come when I could no longer be silent.
I sent word: Gather our people. Fast for me. For three days and three nights, let no food or water pass your lips. And I will go before the king, though it is against the law. If I perish, I perish.”
I stood in the palace hall, my hands trembling beneath my robes. The king sat upon his throne, his golden scepter in his hand. To approach him unbidden was to invite death, unless he extended that scepter to spare me.
I stepped forward.
A breath. A pause.
And then, he lifted the scepter.
I did not beg. I did not weep. I invited the king and Haman to a feast. And then another. And at last, when the time was right, when the air itself seemed to hold its breath, I spoke:
“If I have found favor in your sight, O King, let my life be given me, and the lives of my people. For we have been sold to destruction.”
A shadow passed over his face. “Who has done this?”
I turned to Haman. “The enemy is this wicked man.”
And the king, who had once been blind to the poison in his court, saw. That night, Haman hung from the very gallows he had built for my uncle. The decree could not be undone, but another was sent: my people could rise, defend themselves, and take back their destiny.
And so, the day that had been set for our destruction became our day of victory. A day of sorrow turned into joy. The day of Purim.
The Legacy of the Unseen and the Desert’s Call
I was not a warrior. I held no sword. I built no temple, wrote no law. I was a woman, veiled and unseen, moving within a kingdom that was never mine.
And yet, it was I who turned the decree of death into life.
This is the story of Esther.
This is the story of the hidden ones, the exiled ones, the ones who move between the worlds of power and spirit, waiting for the moment when concealment must become revelation.
But before revelation, before courage rises, before destiny is fulfilled – there is exile. There is the desert.
I did not walk the sands of the wilderness like my ancestors before me, but I knew the desert within: the silence, the waiting, the stripping away of everything familiar until only faith remained.
The desert is not always made of dust and stone. Sometimes, it is made of palace walls, golden idols, and the suffocating weight of expectation. Sometimes, exile is not being cast out, it is being trapped within.
Like the desert, my path was one of invisibility, of whispers, of the long and hidden work of transformation. Like the desert, my trial was in the waiting, in trusting that my time would come, that I would know when to rise, when to speak, when to step into what had been prepared for me all along.
The desert is where prophets are forged. Where kings are tested. Where souls are purified.
I was no prophet. I was no king. And yet, the desert called me just the same.
To stand before a king, risking everything, is no different than standing in the wilderness, crying out to a God who seems silent.
Both require faith in the unseen. Both demand the courage to step forward with no promise of return.
The desert strips away everything but truth. So does exile. So does waiting.
It is in the silence that we are prepared. It is in the emptiness that we are made full.
I stood before the king, but my trial had already happened in the unseen places: in the waiting, in the fasting, in the dark night of the soul.
The desert does not last forever.
One day, the hidden is revealed. The exile ends. The decree is overturned.
And the ones who have walked the wilderness, the ones who have known the silence of exile, they rise.
They do not carry swords, but they carry power.
They do not build temples, but they restore what was lost.
They do not speak often, but when they do, the world listens.
For such a time as this.
Reflection Questions: Walking the Path of the Hidden Ones
- Where in my life am I still in exile: hiding my truth, waiting for the right moment to step forward?
- What is my inner desert? Is it silence, waiting, uncertainty, or the fear of being seen?
- Do I trust the unseen work of the Divine in my life, even when I feel trapped in invisibility?
- How am I being prepared in the silence, in the spaces where nothing seems to move?
- Like Esther, am I listening for the call to rise, to speak, to reveal what has been hidden?
- What illusions must be stripped away before I can step into my purpose with full sovereignty?
- Where am I being tested, not by external battles, but by the wilderness within?
- If I knew that my time would come, that everything was aligning for a greater purpose, how would I carry myself now?
- What is the decree I am called to overturn – in my own life, in my lineage, in the world?
- Can I trust that the desert does not last forever, that one day I will rise, fully seen, fully known, for such a time as this?
May we have the courage to listen, the patience to trust, and the strength to rise when the time comes.
Shabbat Blessings and Happy Purim.
©Copyright Ana Otero
From The Desert Speaks written by Ana Otero. Available to Purchase on May 4th.
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Ahava,
Ana Otero
