Sentinel of the veiled

Illuminating the alluring shore

Rachem,

Her constancy reaching into the ink-black stain of the abyss

The waves carry her words to my straining ears-

You can navigate this

You may have run aground, broken into a thousand pieces before,

drowning so close to the safety of the shore.

But your vessel is honed now

You’ve mapped these waters now

You can feel every swell and drag in your blood now

And there may come an unexpected wind, a blindspot, a vortex.

But you will be carried back to the aching land

By those who tend the liminal:

The selkie, the sea-maid, the siren, swimming in your unfathomable pain.

They place hands at your back til you break surface for air.

Rinse and repeat.

Until.

Your baptized eyes open and the Way is once again clear.

To all the women who walk beside me - your love shines on the jagged rocks, the watery abyss and the not so distant safety of the shore within us in equal measure. Nothing and No-one is left behind. Thank you for being my Lighthouse.

I awoke with this dreamgift from the Night Queen, Rhiannon, this morning (20th March). She is persistent in my awareness, so I heed the steed and offer her my page.

Of course, the first thing that stands out is the: “You shall not pass.” It’s the message that clearing up the currently screaming power leak I named years ago around finances (what even is money?) is CAN NOT be ignored at this juncture, this portal of the Fire Horse. The wooden fence, the boundary, is needed right now- even though we often then leap over it to a reality where the boundary is no longer necessary because our very being, our energy, no longer has space for the encroachment to exist.

Despite the challenges now present around money, I am (we are - my adult son and I) in a place where we can move through it, without complete collapse and conflict. This is the time when we clear this wound from our DNA- and we’re doing it together. The horse did not fall at this gate. Maybe lowering the resolution, finding the inbuilt ‘unstuck’ command will allow us to clean up the place around worthiness, wealth, perfectionism as armour, in our systems - for good.

• Have your dream guides offered you a message you can not ignore recently?

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In drawing an oracle card, Janus wanted in the mix - god of transitions, midpoints, the abstract becoming concrete. In this Spring Equinox portal, this New Moon in Pisces, the spiritual renewal of Eid, I (and I suspect I am not alone) stand with the balance, the equanimity, the suspended yet constantly moving stillness of choice.

What is truly being birthed, sprouting from the seeds we sowed in the darkness of Winter?

Rhiannon by Briar

Connect in, Rhiannon breathes, with the feminine soul, the birthing cosmic womb inside. Trust the knowing that will mend or simply remove that fence altogether and enjoin with the Flow, the flight, the joy of being exactly where you are - on course and always on time. Choice in Every Moment.

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In the London of the late 1990’s, I employed my survival skills artfully to earn well in the world of glossy magazines. In my closet were sexy and expensive suits that sculpted every curve, custom made boots, and glorious high heels that were a beautiful extension of my satin-sheen-hold-up-kissed legs. I spent a lot of my play time in work clothes as the two merged, so much so that I can’t recall what I wore at weekends. Halcyon London was flowing with champagne, cocaine, parties, money and sex. My wardrobe was my armour, my calling card, my persona.

Later on, I subconsciously used clothes to try and hide myself from the proprietorial eyes, the societal claims, the immanent and imminent dangers of being visible. Hiding in the closet.

The past decade of multiplying disabilities, in days where dressing and showering takes up valuable limited energy and years have been spent in clothes I could sleep in and, if needed, face the world in, my wardrobe is very different. The piles of denim, even maternity jeans, that I refused to release for so long are now gone - many years after my two pregnancies, my swollen, violated, painful wombspace precludes anything but one highly valued brand of leggings. And I probably still need to weed out some aspirational items: the beautiful soft jumpsuit that would no doubt be a gymnastic competition in the bathroom; the sparkling gold see through vest that would scratch my delicate skin; the many exquisite dresses that can not be worn without ironing- a feat that would have me lying down exhausted, probably with a burnt hand or arm, before I even tried to walk out the door.

When my body finally started saying a loud NO a decade ago - a story for another time - I lost the identity that was wrapped up in the collection of darling heels and divine handbags. The disabilities I was diagnosed with in an avalanche when doctors finally took my symptoms seriously changed everything. This body seemed to be letting me down, a source of even greater shame than the entrenched intergenerational shame she already carried.

Until I realised my body was speaking to me, through me. And I began to listen. As a trauma survivor and late diagnosed autistic woman, my clothes now also signify to my body: “I am not willing to harm you any more”; “You matter”; “ You over the external demands- ALWAYS”.

In the ancient feminine mysteries, the adornment of face, body, hair was a revered and holy ritual, honouring the body as an emanation of, a fractal of, the Goddess, our Great Mother.

In the past few years, after a fight for my life in the exiting of a marriage, I have been reclaiming the tending of my skin, decorating this aging face, accepting the form of my diseased and disabled body - no easy feat after using the god-given beauty of my youth as a measure of my worth, as currency in a violent world.

Now, I play. Deepening in to the work of the Priestess Path, the process, the ritual of painting and enhancing my eyes so that I can see more clearly; massaging my throat with cream to gently, lovingly shed generations of silencing of our voices; anointing with sacred oils that speak to my cells and my soul; dressing my body as a beloved who deserves comfort, ease, pleasure, fun, drama, beauty and to express how she feels this day, this moment. My closet is now a sacred tool of devotion.

The gift of my disabilities has been the way that I have slowed down. How even the simplest things like showering are a challenge and so I have become so aware of how the blessing of water is necessary for easing and cleansing my body, my mind and my energy field.

With the world stage at the moment, we can’t help but be aware of (and often retraumatized by) the ways in which women have so little agency over our bodies- how our very existence, the showing of our shape, hair, can result in violation and abuse- in some countries, death.

I am reminded today as I look at the candle lit for my Mother, who passed over peacefully after finding her Sacred Grace-filled No, that in her lifetime rape did not exist as a concept within marriage. That in Iran, a woman can not speak of rape for fear of being put to death. That even our neighbouring France is only now, in 2026, taking steps to remove the enshrined conjugal rights that say this marriage licence overrides a wife’s consent or lack of. That my mother, Marlene, did not have access to open her own bank account, obtain credit, or do anything financial without the signature of a father or husband - so no wonder she bowed to insidious and incessant demands and stayed, for half a century, within an abusive marriage that threatened her very life. Her body was not hers to cherish and she was reminded of it regularly.

I feel deep sadness that younger me felt more anger towards her for not getting us out of that violent home than I did towards the man perpetrating it - her daughter was just another tool of the patriarchy. I am sorry, Mum. She loved clothes, as did her mother before her. And I think I’ll explore this further another time - what clothing meant to each of us three.

Through the years, though, we freed each other. Inch by inch. Unpicking the constructs that bound us. I still carry a dressmaker’s measuring tape in my handbag, as she always did. And I will continue to move along it, stitching a new story.

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Twenty-one years since he was removed from my fallopian tube. There was no place for my grief. My anguish embarrassed and tormented the sensibilities of those around me. There was something so primal about my pain. An unwanted pregnancy born of the Shadow behaviour, my desperation to be loved, touched, valued. To somehow connect with the masculine that either abandoned or used me. What a mess.

Reflected in the mess of cells that was choked in my fallopian tube: the image of a gnarled ball of teeth, nails and hair; a chimera with a fierce will to survive, even if it meant killing the host and therefore murdering itself. Oh I loved that ball of thwarted potential - the one I begged the nurses to just abort as I didn’t want the pregnancy, not understanding, not being informed that i had a deadly bomb moments away from going off in my womb space that could not just be routinely scooped or medicated out.

I had been in GP surgeries, in A&E, telling them about the searing pain and all the blood, feeling as though I was being cut open from the inside, and was repeatedly turned away and told to take paracetamol. In the scheduled hospital appointment days later, I had been told I was likely miscarrying and yet had to sit for hours in a waiting room squeezed with the bellies of expectant, bountiful women, their small chaotic offspring and their excited partners. The blank-eyed, scripted kindness of the detached staff, even when I begged in agony to sit somewhere quieter, shifted in an instant when they finally put me on the trolley and scanned me. The silence. The attempting to find different positions. The loaded looks that passed between them as they guardedly refused to meet my terror-filled gaze. The sudden ease with which they now found me that quiet room where I would be contained in the not-knowing whilst they found a doctor. The boxes of cheap translucent tissues on the second hand side tables. The forced tranquillity of the too green wall. The curling, shabby prints of lakes and trees that stood in for the absent windows and fresh air. The claustrophobia of this cell-like fluorescent-lit box.

And then the door opened with a woosh, the doctor spoke and I was rushed into a life-saving emergency operation.

This cosmic portal in my life story feels like it could be a book. Sharing this with you today feels really key in the opening up and trusting in what this substack place is for me, and for others, so thank you if you are still reading.

The alchemy is that the angry and terror-stricken ball of unviable and murderous cells transmuted into a sphere of golden light named Joseph (after my great-uncle) Moon - and his presence and his name allowed me a way to speak with my small and very alive son about the loss of his brother and my subsequent slow and laboured physical and emotional healing.

I’m so grateful for the loving and holding I received from the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust and the women on the forum boards. I cannot express the power of the etheric arms of the women circling together in grief and hope and joy, when it felt like all around me in my physical world wanted the episode to fade like it was the removal of a wart. You can still contact them here if this is something you have been through, however long ago it may have been.

Joseph Moon is the loving reminder of the purity, constancy and protection of the divine and healthy masculine energy I was so starved of all my life until then. It’s no coincidence that I am fresh out of holding in-person Temple in the frequency of the Lady of Communion- the merging of the green and gold of the earth mother and divine father in us. More on that another time.

If this is a challenging read, you can reach out here in the comments or DM me for compassionate witnessing.

There is so much more in this mythic and yet messily human part of my life. But in the interests of following my new commitment to myself and to publishing imperfectly and with the immediacy of transmission, I will post and offer this to those who may need to hear it. And with a commitment to the continued alchemy in the power of Joseph Moon.

The issue of committing to a substack that will try to move with the cycles of the year, moon and my body is that I will then be called deeply in to embodying that. Maybe a rough guide of a substack a week is ambitious given the previous post I wrote. However, there is a lot to share about as I begin on several new or deeper paths this Celtic New Year.

For those who aren’t familiar, Samhain (Oct 31^st-Nov 1st) marks the completion of the Celtic Year, and a new one begins as we move deeper in to the darkest point of the year. Seems odd, right? But the fertile void is where the seed realises she might not only be a seed. The darkness is needed for the new life to begin. So, as we are slowing down in to the long nights of winter, something begins stirring in the belly of the Mother.

Having chronic illnesses brings a deep humility in to the relationship with the body, once the rage and grief have mostly passed. And the many very important programmes I attended that bring in pacing as a way to begin to live with a limiting illness or disability have been key- we ALL need to slow the fuck down, don’t we? And now there is a way in which I am at the stage of moving from a place of imperfection, even during periods of deep rest, like now.

So this recovering perfectionist committed, in the London Writers’ Salon Saturday morning session, to ‘write a crap substack post’.

My love, this is no reflection on my care for you.

It is a radical path of acceptance for myself.

Rather than getting hung up on getting it right, I am just going to show up.

My beloved mentor, best friend and deep soul guide, Elsa Alegria, helped me realise that I am always resourced at a soul level. And so, this has become a post about honouring the self where she’s at, and also knowing it’s possible to offer from a place of deep surrender as well:

o Imperfectly

o Maybe not the piece of writing intended

o Allowing the spellchecking to be loose (sit down, my dear ex-English Teacher Self)

o Knowing there is always the option to revisit.

Having held Temple space online now for a number of years, for the first time I will be guiding one in person this month (hence ensuring the jabs are up to date for this immune-compromised household). This will, I know, be a big physical as well as soul initiation for me – embodying the Priestess even more deeply, with the support of my beloved sisters Charlotte Sophia and Sarah Devereux. And the initiation is to move from a place of surrender, receiving and grace, honouring our stage in later life and the different needs we all may have.

The Embrace will be a Temple for leaning in to the warm womb-hug of the Great Mother- something women can find it naturally hard to do in a world where we are literally running on trauma responses.

And there is a saturation of offerings that use the language of the Divine Feminine yet still push from the patriarchal wounding. I own I still carry that in my bones and blood, the dominator culture (Riane Esler). But I promise myself and those I hold space for and with that we can do this differently. The Shadow of overgiving and resentment will and has come up as we three prepare to hold this space, of course. And we embrace that shadow too, for all she is offering us – a chance to allow the old to fall away as our feet create new avenues of collaboration and ease in the outer world, our bodies and in our neural pathways.

If you’re in the UK, we’d love you to join us for The Embrace (women only at the moment), 22^nd November 2025. This will begin the first year of the 13 Moon Lineage being held on UK soil. More on that another time.

So let me know where you are in your cycle – a word or symbol will do. And if you have any words of wisdom do drop them in! Or just a share about how you move through the world with chronic illness or a pattern of chronic overgiving (often one and the same). Tips or just shares for witnessing always welcome.

Imperfectly yours

“Sarah – Where did you get this from?”

Aged 12 or so, painfully thin and angular, I faced her over the authoritative desk at the front of the classroom. My back bristled as I felt the silent attention of the girls behind me in their seats, their eyes no doubt drifting up furtively to take in the scene unfolding before them as they pretended to continue their own work. I could feel their antennae for drama unfurling and heard their wordless looks that bounced from one girl’s eyes to another, and another – creating a criss-cross laser grid surrounding the treasure of my desk chair. The way back was blocked. I begged the floor to open up beneath me, the sleeping Dragon of this land to yawn and swallow me whole.

Although the diminutive, black-clad and shapely Mrs D was a native Welsh speaker, she lingered on her English consonants more like a caricature of a Soviet spy.

“Well, Sarah?”

She was gesticulating at the meticulously crafted murder mystery
in my careful looped handwriting
on orderly A4 lined paper
sitting squarely before her.

It might’ve been a pair of soiled underpants based on the contortions of her face and neck.

I realize I haven’t answered. I don’t really comprehend at this point, though its clear to everyone in the room that I’m in some kind of serious trouble.

“I…don’t…”

“Well come on! You didn’t write this yourself! Where did you copy it from? I – Will – Not – Tolerate – Plagiarism.”

The building itself drew in a sharp breath. Large walls of windows on two sides of the classroom seemed to bow with the collective inhale of my classmates.

Even the girls who would take great satisfaction when I tripped over my feet on the harsh gravel hockey pitch were not inclined to snigger, as the sea of potential punishments crashed around me before their eyes.

“Miss, I … I wrote it myself”

“There is no waaay you could’ve created this alone. Where…did…you... plagiarize…from.., Sarah. I won’t ask again.”

This woman- the one who had wandered so easily in to my imaginarium; the one who had transformed book covers from the escape hatches out of an abusive childhood into ornate gateways opening to gardens of passion, tragedy and embodiment; the one who had slowly, ever so slowly begun to help me feel safe to be present in this world, this body- crackled with enraged energy. Anger meant danger. Anger meant violation. Anger meant contract-contract-contract until the sweeping searchlight of violence can’t pinpoint you any longer.

SoulMirror

For seekers of magic, alchemy and playful evolution... before we all up and die. On devotion to the Goddess, Tantric Path, Soul Midwifery and reclamation of our Voices. Thriving with trauma and chronic illness as fuel for the fire.

By Sarah Marlena

Decades on, as we drove the verdant country lanes during lockdown, it was my then 20-year-old son who identified this pivotal moment as the one where the shame around creation took root.

And now, five years later, realizing this memory would be the one with which this Substack would begin, the writing of it paralyzed me all over again. I have been wracked with unworthiness. Unable to quiet the critical voice. At first, I told myself that I was in a rest period, a lull, and that the birthing of this space (anchored in cycles, flow and rhythms) was calling me in to walking my talk and respecting the fallow times.

Then, a few days ago, the knowing arrived that the discomfort I was feeling in this apparent rest period was telling me something else: I was 12 again. It was the late 1980s in a Welsh Valleys town. And I was flying from my body, from the task, from the calling ahead of me, from my heart’s desire. The grief, shame and agony of that one episode was moving through me again.

The difference is that this time I have the muscle memory- physical, mental, spiritual and emotional- to be there for that girl. I have the community to hold and witness me as I roil in the cauldron. I have the gnosis that I will re-emerge. So, I hold her hand as I complete this first post, this initiatory process. We do it together.

This is not a personal road, though the details here are very individual. I intend for this to be a space here where we are able to share and move through these growing pains, these moments in the dark but fertile void. This is such a very human experience, and in it is the crux of how we can lovingly draw and invite in the divine creative aspects of ourselves that so want to feel how it is to walk in these bodies. I am breathing a gentle sigh of relief as I press publish and begin to truly birth this container.

The invitation is to co-create here. To join your words, your voice to mine in the comments and, later on, in other community spaces at SoulMirror – what really pinged you? Or made you cringe? Tell us about you and your creative odysseys – are you flowing and have been all your life, or still stuck in the wondering why it is so hard to even start? What happened when you birthed your Substack or other artistic dreams in to the world? I would love to know.

Or you can literally just say ‘hi’ – speaking ourselves in to our most vibrant existence can begin really, really small.

If you have a post of your own or another’s that you feel resonates here, I’d love to read so do post links here. ‘Pebbling’ (as we term it in the neurodivergent spaces) will be voraciously embraced.

I have come to know that we heal and expand in community, and I hope you will join me in this one, beloved.

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