Path Of The Modern Priestess

Sitting at the altar of my Ancestors 🌀 ᛉCompanion and witness in death. thresholdweaver.com

[thresholdweaver]

Death is a bittersweet companion.

She does not come to steal.

He comes to return you to what matters most through the process of rot.

You cannot out run death, so you might as well embrace it while you’re still alive.

[thresholdweaver]

My phone is one of my most sacred magical tools. But it didn’t used to be

For years, I had an imbalanced relationship with it—seeking connection from wounds, craving affirmation of my pain, my words, my worth. When I wasn’t seen or understood, I took it as proof that I didn’t exist.

It was like trudging through mud, rubbing it into open wounds, and then wondering why I was festering, why I began to rot.

A black mirror is a powerful tool.

It can shape reality or distort it.

It can be a vessel for creation or a trap that corrodes you from within.

There is only one way to hold it safely:

from a place of rooted, embodied wholeness. Otherwise, it consumes more than it reflects.

But now, I approach it with reverence.

I understand it can be sacred if that is my intention when I pick it up, when I look into it.

Not to be seen, but to see.

[thresholdweaver]

COMFORT ≠ EASE

SAFETY ≠ COMFORT

I’ve spent years chasing what I thought was safety—

keeping myself small, unseen—

when really I was just repeating what felt familiar and comfortable.

Sometimes what we call comfort is just the absence of threat,

but not the presence of nourishment.

Sometimes the ease I long for isn’t soft—it’s sharp.

It cuts through the lie that says survival is the only thing worth protecting.

I’ve learned that real safety doesn’t always feel good.

It doesn’t always feel comfortable.

But it allows the body to stop bracing.

It lets grief rise.

It lets truth echo.

It lets the soul arrive.

I am no longer willing to contort myself for comfort.

I am no longer choosing silence and inaction

for the illusion and sake of safety.

I am safe in the unknown.

I am safe in the dark.

I am safe in the untamed current of my becoming.

This isn’t comfort.

This is liberation.

This is the path of ease.

[thresholdweaver]

ᚺᛁᚾ ᚺᛖᛚᚷᚨ ᚺᚱᛁᚾᛃᚨ

Hin Helga Hrynja — The sacred falling rhythm.

The way forward is clearing,

through the sacred and rapid collapse—

the collapse of all the illusions I have clung to.

None are safe.

All will crumble, one by one.

The comfort of my cage is dissolving

as I find myself at the bottom of the raging sea,

on my knees…

finally able to breathe.

finally able to speak.

finally able to cry the tears of thousands—

the tears of repression, suppression, oppression.

I am still,

as the ocean swirls around me

like a cold womb.

Like a still tomb.

I see the need for it all—

but that does not negate the pain of releasing my hold.

My fingers are bloodied

from the years of holding onto what was never mine,

as Beinomóðir slowly pries them open.

Oh, Sacred Mother…

my soul weeps in gratitude.

Thank you for not letting me stand still.

Thank you for the discomfort.

Thank you for true love. For your gifts.

I am ready now, to swing my scythe.

I am the reaper of my bloodline.

I am the reckoning they prayed for.

[thresholdweaver]

TEACHER

Anyone who positions themselves as a teacher—above you, ahead of you, more advanced than you—in spiritual spaces is someone I would walk away from.

There are no gurus. No saviors. No sacred authorities.

You are the teacher. You are the guide. You are the bridge.

But—there are companions.

And yes, you will learn from them.

Especially when you understand that what you see in them is a reflection of yourself.

The most sacred learning comes through companionship, not hierarchy

And if you’re fortunate, your companion will hold a clear mirror—forged through humility, embodiment, and deep inner work.

They won’t distort you.

They won’t punish you.

They won’t ask to be followed.

They will simply stand beside you, witnessing.

And in that witnessing, you will remember who you are.

Reflections, not teachers.

Companions, not masters.

Witnessing, not control.

[thresholdweaver]

I laid everything on my ancestral altar—my circle, my relationships, my family, my life, my public offerings.

I told the mystery to show me where I needed to let go, where I was still being held back.

Kept small. Caged.

And I watched as the veil was removed from my eyes. I saw through the masks of those around me—those who told me they could hold me, meet me, and heal with me. But I saw that it was all a lie…

to me, to themselves.

They weren’t willing to plunge into the abyss with me. To allow everything that wasn’t part of their path to die.

And while I can understand and see, the betrayal still overwhelms me with grief and heartbreak.

The heartbreak of not being chosen. Of not being walked with.

The heartbreak of comfort and familiarity being desired more than the raw flame of my truth and being.

The heartbreak of the stories that were spun and crafted to turn me into the problem. The issue.

When all I desired was a companion in death. To sit with me in my grief and pain and tell me: I know.

To sit in silence and love.

To not expect anything from me—not my sight, not my knowing—but to hold my heart and love me through it.

To not rush me, to not tell me to get up and move on and be strong.

To tell me they’re here for me, and I don’t have to hold it alone—and to understand what that actually means.

To understand what they’re truly offering.

To not try to control me.

To not diminish my insights because they don’t align with the story and reality they’ve woven for themselves.

To not hide me away or keep me out of sight from the outside world because they’re afraid or ashamed of how I might be seen.

To come with a clear heart—a forged mirror they’ve used for deep self-reflection. Not muddied by fantasies and wishful thinking, but tempered through true refinement and embodied sovereign action, ceremony, stillness, and love.

I know the people in my past were never made to walk with me in the underworld. They couldn’t—unless they were willing to die to themselves and the life they knew. But it doesn’t change how my heart has ached through the break and betrayal of false words,

fancy façades dressed in spiritual speak, and the loneliness of walking with eyes wide open—cutting through illusions since birth, and not being able to ignore the truth once it is revealed.

I have sacrificed and released everything that I am, everything that I have been, to become who I was made to be.

I was thrust into the fire—but this time, willingly. To reclaim the magick that had been lost, the parts of me that contorted themselves to stay hidden,

to stay “safe.”

I let it burn through the illusions.

And now I sit at the bottom of the collapse, covered in the ashes—

weeping and mourning.

I will rise. But not today. Not before it’s time. Not before my heart is ready.

Not before my body has felt every ounce of grief that has come with letting go and being made new.

[thresholdweaver]

INITIATION IS NOT THE TRAUMA

Experiencing trauma and abuse in this life is not the same as the pain, agony, and death that comes with real initiation and rebirth.

I’m not saying this to downplay the pain of trauma. But calling the trauma itself the transformation is a form of spiritual bypassing.

You don’t get reborn just because something awful happened to you.

You have to go back.

To the part of you that’s still frozen in that moment of time.

The part that’s terrified to feel what actually happened.

You have to sit with them.

Feel what they couldn’t.

Let it move through you—

no matter how much it hurts.

And hold compassion and love for that part of yourself while you scream, shake, and cry.

That is when the real death begins.

Because you’re finally laying that piece of yourself to rest.

That is when transformation happens.

That is the start of the rebirth.

Initiation is not the trauma.

But sitting with the trauma—fully, honestly, without turning away—is often the door.