We all have resistance to being told what to do, we should. It’s fucking annoying that everyone has answers but no one has the capacity to receive our pain.
This is the father wound.
The deep pain or absence many feel in their relationship with father figures—personally, culturally, and spiritually. It can show up as a lack of protection, guidance, love, or affirmation, and it often mirrors a broader sense of disconnection from the Divine Masculine when it’s been distorted into control, domination, or abandonment.
Nobody likes being told what to do, but I am going to be a momentary Daddy with you with so much love rn and say out loud…
DO NOT HEAL THE FATHER WOUND ALONE!
The Sun has a Mother too you know? The Great Mystery that birthed us all and she has somethings to say.
The nature of it is isolation, don’t believe it’s sick little lies. We need community to hold us when we feel we have nothing left to give. Find them, create them. Stay soft and vulnerable but alive.
If you’re heartbroken and here for the good fight, and interested in a no bs download of the Magdalene way and a balm on some scorched skin form a father wound fever that has has you running away form what’s good and hot from what can’t hold you,
this ^^^ episode of Mother of the Sword will soothe you.
Let me know what you feel and notice in the comments, id love to hear from you. Blessed father’s day to all those daddies inside and out who are here to gather in the name of something different.
I am currently in the land of Santa Fe, New Mexico gathering with a group of witches welcoming the deep and intense and soul satisfying process of healing the father wound and awakening the wise one’s within us.
A poem on the father from mine, channeled through me from the Mother of the Sun.
the sun inside
The Sun inside me
used to hit.
Like my hands did
on my own skin.
Like my head against the wall
when I couldn’t find
a way out
of myself.
He was rage.
He was pain.
He was my father’s ghost
slurring through my blood,
calling me to follow him
into the dark.
Where no one is allowed to ask for help.
That man—
the one who made me laugh,
and broke himself trying to love—
died with secrets clenched
between his broken teeth.
I carry him in my chest.
Like fire.
Like curse.
Like prayer.
But now,
the Sun inside me
has changed shape.
No longer a bruise.
Not a god demanding penance.
He’s breath.
He’s bare feet
on scorched earth.
He’s the warmth that rises
not to punish,
but to awaken.
He is my need to stay close to fire.
He’s a strong back
pressed to mine
when I forget how to stand.
He says nothing
when I scream.
He stays.
Breathing.
Holding the sky open
for me to remember myself.
This Sun is a warm palm
on the back of my neck.
He says nothing.
Just holds.
He burns…
but he burns slow.
Burns tender.
Burns so I remember—
I don’t have to hustle
to be held.
He isn’t afraid of my tears.
He kneels
in the flood with me,
lifts my chin,
and says,
“Let it come.
We rise soaked,
and we rise shining.”
He doesn’t shame the shadow.
He stretches his light
across the floor of my cave
until I remember:
I am
flame
and
soot.
I am
the girl
sobbing on the bathroom tile
at 3am—
AND the woman with a lion
who walks out
singing.
He’s the father I build
inside me.
Not the one who fled,
not the one who hit,
not the one who ignored
not the one who got buried in his light—
but the one who stays.
The one who sees.
Who says
“Nothing about you is too much.
You are the wise one now.
And when I run—
which I do—
he doesn’t chase.
He waits.
A throne of dust and knowing.
A throne of patience.
And when I return,
hair tangled in grief,
heart beating like sacred drums—
he smiles,
slow like sunrise,
and says:
“Welcome back.
The world missed you.”
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