Under The Whip

Reflections from the Holy Fire Conference.

A take away from the Master/Slave Relationships as a Spiritual Path class, Presented By Raven Kaldera and Joshua Tenpenny

I had the most wonderful time at the Holy Fire Conference. Truly, it was the best way I could have imagined to kick start 2026. I learned so much, and yet the biggest thing I walked away with wasn’t a technique or a protocol, it was the realization that I still have so much room to grow within myself, as a slave, and within my submission.

There are times when my Masters give me a task. Tasks that, honestly, should be simple. Even fun. And before I go any further, I want to be very clear, I do complete the tasks. There is no disobedience there. But what I had never really looked at before was what was happening inside me while I was doing them. The grumbling. The complaining. The quiet judgment that something was mundane, boring, or not intellectually stimulating enough.

My Masters usually laughed it off. They would tell me “too bad, you’re still doing it,” and I would go do it. The task would be completed, and we would move on. I never stopped to ask myself, or them, whether my attitude caused harm. I never even considered that it might. For that lack of awareness, I am deeply upset with myself, and genuinely sorry.

During Raven Kaldera’s first class at Holy Fire, they said something that landed straight in my chest.

“Service should not be performed with grumbling in the heart.” Raven Kaldera

That sentence cracked something open in me. Because the truth is, I do this. And after a lot of reflection, I’m beginning to understand just how harmful it can be.

Serving with a grumbling heart doesn’t just make me appear ungrateful, when service itself is an honor I am privileged to give, it can undermine my Masters’ authority and role in our dynamic. It can chip away at their confidence. It can dull their desire to ask me to serve at all. And the thought of never being asked to serve again? That would be devastating to my heart.

I also realized that when I grumble, I am not serving from a spiritual place of love and devotion. Anyone can perform an action mechanically. Fetch the cup. Fill it. Set it down. Obedience alone can do that. But for me, service has always been about intention. It is about how I prepare the cup, how I fill it, how I carry it. How I present it with grace, how I kiss the rim before setting it into their hands. It is meant to be an act of love. Of beauty. Of devotion.

So why have I been serving with a grumbling heart?

Right now, I don’t have that answer. And yes, that’s disappointing. But I am doing the work to find it. What I do have now is awareness, and that matters. Awareness means I can catch myself. Awareness means I can shift my mindset. Awareness gives me the opportunity to realign my service so that it honors my Masters, my surrender, and myself.

Moving forward, I am choosing to offer my full surrender in service. I am choosing to meet tasks with an open heart, a soft smile, and a willing spirit. I’ve been thinking a lot about how, when my Masters ask me to engage with something that excites them, a book, a show, a video game that doesn’t immediately interest me. I don’t want to just “get through it.” I want to find my way into it. To discover something that genuinely sparks my curiosity. To participate, not just comply.

I don’t want to merely obey. I want to belong in the service. I want to live in it. Ritualize it. Breathe meaning into it. So I am taking Raven’s words deeply to heart, and I will do my best to never serve with a grumbling heart again. 2026 is going to be about growth for me. About stepping forward more fully. About surrendering deeper, softer, and with greater intention. I serve because I get to serve. And that is an honor I never want to forget.

Trigger Warning: This writing briefly and lightly references experiences of abuse. The mention is not graphic or detailed, but reader discretion is advised.

-----

This week feels…complicated. Bittersweet. Heavy. Gentle and raw all at the same time. And I’m choosing to be extremely vulnerable right now. I’m writing about a chapter of my life I avoided unpacking for a very long time, not because it didn’t matter, but because it mattered too much.

I had a childhood friend I met when I was 14. When I turned 19, we became romantically involved, and I truly believed I had found the love of my life. He was the first man I ever lived with after leaving home. He stood beside me while I took custody of my siblings. He helped me survive my parents’ volatile divorce. He held space for me when the most important person in my world passed away.

My family convinced him to marry me. There was no proposal, just, “Let’s get married,” two years in. A month before the wedding, I called it off. I didn’t understand why at the time, only that I wasn’t ready. We didn’t break up, though, and looking back, I think that’s when we should have.

Instead, we packed up and moved away from my hometown to his. I met his family for the first time, and discovered he had a daughter he had never told me about. That betrayal cut deeply. I won’t unpack all of it here, but I made one thing very clear, if he wanted to be with me, he would not be a deadbeat father. I had already survived one of those.

Shortly after, I became extremely ill. So sick that I nearly died. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong for a long time. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. And during that time, the only thing he seemed concerned about was sex. When I told him I physically couldn’t perform, he became upset, and later asked if he could see other women “until I got better.” Because of my trauma, I said yes.

That choice is mine to own. My fear of abandonment came from childhood wounds and watching the man my father was. That part is on me. What was on him was asking that question at all, especially when I was so sick.

While he went on dates, I stayed home barely able to function. A friend of his (our rommate) would check on me while he was gone. Eventually, I packed a suitcase and went back to my mother’s, originally for a doctor’s appointment, and stayed for three months. We didn’t speak during that time. When I went back to collect my things, he begged me not to leave. He made promises. I went back, and unknowingly stepped straight into the same patterns I grew up watching.

Eventually, doctors figured out what was wrong with me. With proper medication, I found a new normal. I got a great job. He got a great job. We moved into our own place. From the outside, things looked better. That’s when the abuse became an everyday thing.

I got into professional gaming. He complained that I never made time for him, so I stopped gaming. He immediately got on the console and ignored me. I found other hobbies. When he finished gaming, he complained I was always on the computer, then took my place there. One night, I finally snapped and asked if he wanted me to just sit quietly in the corner until he decided I was worth paying attention to.

This isn’t all on him.

At the time, I didn’t understand my mental health. That doesn’t excuse my behavior, but it explains some of it. I was young. Volatile. When we fought, we fought. Screaming. Throwing things. Toxic words. There was one moment it turned physical.

And that was the moment I knew the romantic relationship was over. I ended it immediately. I refused to tolerate physical abuse, no matter how much he begged. We agreed to be friends. I moved into my own room. Life became calmer. Functional. Or so I thought.

Years later, his daughter came back into the picture . She was in a terrible situation. We sat down and talked. He wanted to fight for her. So we got legally married at the courthouse. Custody battles turned into criminal court. Eventually, he was granted full custody. The mother lost all parental rights.

Yes, I know exactly what I did. And despite everything, I would do it again. Because I became her mother.

We stayed married on paper and for her stability. No arguing in front of her. No chaos. I stayed home to raise her while he worked. I couldn’t have children of my own, and loving her filled something sacred in me. But he controlled and abused me through her. If I didn’t do what he wanted, no matter what it was, he threatened divorce and taking her away. Adoption papers were started, all of the time, and then stopped repeatedly, and when when his new girlfriend said she’d leave if I adopted her, that was the last time I attempted to legally adopt her. That broke something in me. For the first time in my life, I hated him. Still, I never walked away from that little girl. She became my purpose. No matter what happened between adults, she deserved stability and love.

Eventually, we moved to the East Coast. New opportunities. Closer to my family I chose to remain in contact iwth. Our daughter thrived. That’s when I met Damon.

He accepted all of me. The complicated parts. The legal marriage. The reality that we were staying together until she was grown. He became an incredible stepdad, and one of the greatest blessings in my life, alongside my daughter.

When she turned 18. And I went blind. Divorce was postponed. Surgeries followed. Medical treatments. My legal husband stayed so I could keep insurance, and I am grateful for that. He softened. Found a partner of his own. The treatments couldn’t save my eyes. But they gave me clarity.

Today, we filed the paperwork. Both of my Masters were with me. My legal husband was there. We walked into the courthouse and closed a chapter that lasted 23 years. In April, I will be legally divorced. It will be finalized, and

finished.

I feel sadness, for what couldn’t be fixed, for a childhood friend I no longer wish to see again, for the familiarity I’m leaving behind. And I feel relief, deep, steady relief.

I can breathe.
I’m not trapped.
My life is no longer on hold.

My daughter is grown, thriving, building her own life. We’re moving forward. I’m moving forward, with intention. I’ve done the work. Therapy. Accountability. Growth. Boundaries. I know now that sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes timing is wrong. Sometimes damage goes too deep. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk away.

I’m not ashamed of my tears today.

Despite everything, he gave me the greatest gift of my life, the chance to be a mother. For that, I will always be grateful. But even when a door needs to close, it still hurts. This space, this life, was familiar. It felt like a security blanket. And now I’m stepping into something unknown.

I am happy.
I am sad.
I am excited.
And yes, I am terrified.

But I am strong. I am enough. And I know, without question, that I can walk away when I need to. After 23 years on this rollercoaster, I’m finally stepping off. And I’m ready to see what comes next.

Disclaimer: Before commenting, please understand that any negative or harmful remarks will not be acknowledged or responded to. This writing is not meant to belittle him or myself. It is shared as part of my process of moving forward, healing, and reclaiming peace. Respectful engagement only. Anything else is met with a block.
 

Lately, I’ve been watching a few of my friends step into the world of kink with intention. They’re not naïve. They know what they want, what they need, and, most importantly, what they will not tolerate. They ask questions. They set boundaries. They move slowly and thoughtfully. And honestly? I respect the hell out of that.

Which brings me to why I’m writing this.

Recently, I had a conversation with a man who, very clearly, was barking up the wrong tree. I am deeply happy in my not so perfect, very real dynamic with both of my Masters. Still, conversation happened. He identified himself as a Dominant. Naturally, I asked the kinds of questions many of us do: Leather lifestyle? Philosophies like Gorean? Sadist? Experience with power exchange beyond the bedroom?

And that’s when the mask slipped.

He admitted he only lists himself as a Dominant because it is “easier to meet women” and get them into bed. No interest in power exchange. No desire for responsibility, structure, care, or accountability. Just casual sex, wrapped in a stolen title.

I found it disgusting. Predatory. And yes, in my personal opinion, behavior like that edges dangerously close to sexual assault because it relies on deception and exploitation. I told him plainly to never contact me again and to stop lying to people to use them.

Now here’s the part that truly breaks my heart.

As my friend continues her search for a healthy, consensual dynamic, this is all she seems to find. Men who claim dominance but offer nothing beyond “hello… can I see your naked pictures?” Men who apply pressure immediately. Men who vanish the moment boundaries appear. So I have to ask: how did we get here?

Are these men actually Dominants seeking meaningful, ethical power exchange, or are they simply using a title as bait? How has our community fallen so far that this behavior is not only tolerated, but common?

Let me be clear, there is absolutely space in kink for casual sex, fetish play, swingers, and purely physical encounters. That is not the problem. The problem is lying. If you want kink without commitment, say that. Stay in your lane. Do not masquerade as something you are not. Trust me, we can see right through you.

I believe we have a responsibility as a community to uphold standards. Words like Dominant and submissive mean something. When we allow people to misuse them, others get hurt. I wish I had a better solution than quietly keeping my own list of people I refuse to allow at my events, but right now, that’s where I’m at.

So all I can really do is write. And warn.

There are people out there claiming titles they have not earned. Some will say they are Dominant. Others will say they are submissive. And some will use those labels to extract sex, money, labor, attention, or control, without consent or integrity.

Please be mindful. Ask the hard questions. Take your time. If someone pressures you to give more, move faster, or ignore your instincts before you’re ready, see that for what it is.

A massive red flag.

You are allowed to say no thank you. You are allowed to walk away. And you are allowed to demand honesty in a community built on trust.

Stay safe out there.
 

I swear to walk my spiritual path with intention and honesty, to continue learning, growing, and listening as I am able.

I vow to remain mindful in my submission, practicing it with integrity, self respect, and care, and to offer my best effort each day, knowing that growth is a living thing.

This I swear in good faith, to the best of my ability, and with honor.

Dont Recall Where, But I Will Be Taking!!

1. Surround yourself with people whose eyes light up when they see you coming.

2. Slowly is the fastest way to get to where you want to be.

3. The top of one mountain is the bottom of the next, so keep climbing!

Good luck out there. Remember you are not alone!
💜💜💜

This past week I did something a little outside my comfort zone. I attended a virtual support growth circle for s-types. The focus was on visioning and goal setting for slavery, submission, and service in the coming year. And honestly? I didn’t expect it to hit me the way it did.

I’ve never really been one for resolutions or long term goal setting. I don’t know if it is fear of failing, lack of follow through, or just knowing myself well enough to assume I won’t maintain it, but historically, I just, don’t do that. So walking into a space that asked me to look ahead like this felt a little scary. But also? Kinda thrilling. I felt a sense of belonging almost immediately. Listening to other s-types share their words, their hopes, their intentions, it stirred something soft and curious in me. I left that circle with my brain buzzing and my heart a little fluttery.

I sat with it for several days after. Letting it roll around in my head. And eventually, I chose to engage with it instead of avoiding it (which, yes, is growth for me). They had said we could pick as many or as few words as we wanted. Given my track record, maybe “follow through” should’ve been the obvious choice, but instead, I found myself drawn to three words. Three words that feel grounding, protective, and deeply aligned with how I want to live my slavery next year.

Stewardship
The disciplined care of what has been entrusted.

This one landed in my heart in the best way. Stewardship centers responsibility over performance. It reminds me that my slavery isn’t about proving or pushing, it is about conscious tending. To my body. My protocols. My service. My limits. It honors Leather values of accountability while still letting me remain sovereign and present inside my devotion. That feels, really good.

Integrated
All parts acknowledged and included.

This word feels deeply personal to me. Given my lived experience with DID and internal systems, integration matters. A lot. This word tells me that my slavery does not require fragmentation to function. I don’t have to split myself apart to be “good.” My service gets to hold all of me. Every part. Every voice. That feels tender and incredibly affirming.

Sustainable
Built to last without self harm.

Ohhh this one, this one feels important. Sustainable reframes devotion as something livable, not extractive. It reminds me that no protocol that breaks me is worthy of my service. My slavery deserves to be steady, embodied, and long-lasting, not something I burn myself out on trying to maintain. I want to last. I want my devotion to endure.

My 2026 Intention Statement

In 2026, I commit to Stewardship of my service, my body, and my devotion. My slavery is not an act of disappearance, but of responsible care. I choose to tend what I am given, agreements, protocols, rituals, and expectations, with honesty and accountability, while also honoring my own limits. I will no longer confuse endurance with worth, nor sacrifice my well being to prove loyalty.

I enter this year Integrated. All parts of me are welcome within my service. I will not fragment, mask, or silence myself in order to be acceptable or compliant. My obedience will be conscious, chosen, and whole, rooted in consent and clarity rather than fear or survival. Unity within myself is not a weakness, it is the foundation of my strength as a slave.

Above all, my devotion in 2026 will be Sustainable. I will build a dynamic that can be lived in, not survived. My service will be steady rather than extractive, intentional rather than compulsive. What I offer will be real, embodied, and lasting, because a slavery that destroys the slave is not honorable, and a devotion that cannot endure is not true.

I don’t know exactly what this next year will bring. I still feel shy about goal setting. But choosing these words feels different. It feels intentional. It feels kind. And it feels like a promise, not to be perfect, but to be present.

And honestly? I’m excited. Excited to see how this unfolds, one obedient, thoughtful, sustainable step at a time
 

I recently went to a discussion group, and I honestly didn’t expect how much it would fill my cup. There was warmth in the room, laughter, thoughtful conversation, and that quiet feeling of being understood without having to explain myself too much. One moment in particular stayed with me. A fellow submissive shared that she has an altar in her home dedicated to her submission.

As she spoke, I felt something in me light up.

Since then, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. The idea of creating an altar for myself feels deeply grounding. I love the thought of having something tangible to look at, something that helps me visualize my submission and keep my intentions clear. A space that gently reminds me who I am, how I serve, and what I am working toward, not out of pressure, but out of devotion and care.

More than anything, I’m drawn to the quiet intimacy of it. A place where I can sit with myself, breathe, reflect, and reconnect with my submissive headspace. Somewhere I can honor my service, my growth, and my commitment in a way that feels nurturing and intentional. The more I imagine it, the more it feels like an act of self love through submission, rooted, mindful, and entirely mine.

As I sit here, my heart a little fluttery with excitement, I’ve started to lovingly ponder what I might place on my altar. Just thinking about it makes me feel warm and centered. So far, these are the pieces that are calling to me.

I imagine beginning with a small purple cloth, the exact shade that represents the House of Koch, laying the foundation for everything else. Resting on it would be my very first collar, the one my Master Damon gave me, now retired, but still so full of meaning and memory. Alongside it, my wolf tag with my name on it. It once hung from my collar, but after it was removed, it became something just for me, something deeply personal.

I would add the candle I had when I first met my Master Calvin, its presence reminding me of beginnings and the feelings that stirred in me then. I’d like to place a framed copy of my slave papers there as well, honoring my identity and the path I walk. Perhaps a few crystals, chosen intuitively, and a vase of flowers, or maybe even a small plant, something I can nurture, the way I nurture my submission itself.

I love the idea of keeping my small recording device there too, so I can softly speak my thoughts when they arise and later give them form in words. Maybe my favorite Gorean novel would rest nearby, or a small card with my favorite submissive quotes, something to read when I need grounding or inspiration. Of course, there would be a picture of my Masters, watching over the space, and finally, a small piece of leather, simple, symbolic, and deeply comforting.

Even imagining it all together makes me feel more rooted, more present, and quietly happy in my submission.

So what would you add to your altar? Let me know in the comments!

I entered this lifestyle 23 years ago, and whew, I was extremely naïve. Painfully literal. I stepped into the Gorean side of things first, and honestly? I learned almost everything wrong in the beginning. I had no support system, no informed consent, and absolutely no education. I hadn’t done my research, didn’t know the language, and didn’t even know what questions to ask. I was 19, far too trusting, and very much “young and dumb” in the way only experience can fix.

I was told I was never allowed to say no. That as a slave, I was not allowed to have any limits. Whatever a Master said went, whether I was okay with it or not. Safewords? Didn’t even know what those were. Unsurprisingly, that dynamic ended fast.

Because while I choose to be a slave, I also choose self respect, and autonomy. I can submit, surrender, and serve while still having boundaries, limits, and deal breakers. Those things are not opposites, they coexist beautifully.

Zero Limits? Yeah… No.

Over the years, I’ve met a lot of people who are new to the lifestyle, or who simply refuse to do the bare minimum of educating themselves. In my experience, they usually fall into two camps.

• They think they already know everything
• Or they’re just too lazy to care

Most people I’ve met who loudly proclaim they have zero limits are submissive types, but I’ve also run into Dominants who try to bark orders and announce they “don’t allow limits, contracts or safewords.” My response is always the same, I briefly educate them, and then tell them to fuck off. Just in kinder words.

I have zero interest in unsafe behavior!

Here’s the hard truth,

Claiming to have no limits doesn’t make you edgy, fun, attractive or evolved. What it does do is put a giant neon sign over your head that says “Predators Welcome.”

People who think that way are far more likely to be harmed, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and often not in consensual ways at all. Worse? It also signals that you are not a safe person to be in a dynamic with. I don’t want to be friends with people who won’t take the small amount of time it takes to look inward and identify even their most basic boundaries.

Where Things Changed for Me

Everything shifted when I met my Mentor and his lovely girl. For the first time, I felt validated. For the first time, I had a voice. They gave me a starting point and taught me something incredibly important, There are non negotiable, set in stone boundaries that should apply to everyone.

If someone, or something, cannot give consent, it is a hard limit. Period.

• Children
• Animals
• The deceased

None of them can consent. Anything involving them is a hard NO. My morality aligns with this completely. The same goes for anything that causes real harm to others (not consensual kink) or involves criminal behavior. Also a hard no.

“But I Don’t Have Limits!”

We all tease people who say that. I’m guilty of it. You probably are too, or will be eventually. It happens. When people complain that we’re “taking it to extremes,” I do that on purpose. Extremes make the point clear. Because guess what? Those same people always have limits.

Can we cut off a body part? No.

Rob a bank? No.

Give up your children for full time service? No.

Hand over every paycheck forever? No.

Okay, let’s go less extreme, I guess. Extreme is subjective, so keep that in mind.

Dark, extreme bruising?

Financial control with a stranger?

Scarification?

Branding?

Forced body modification, piercings or tattoos?

Shaving your head? (It’s just hair, right?)

Changing your religion?

Who to vote for?

Limits exist. **Every single time. **And here’s the most important part, Your hard limits are yours. They require no explanation.

A no is a complete sentence!

Anyone trying to negotiate a hard limit is not someone you should be playing with, because they don’t respect boundaries.

Saying you have no limits does not attract the right people. I don’t care how convinced you are otherwise. If I flipped the script and became a Dominant tomorrow, a submissive claiming zero boundaries would be an immediate hard pass.

Self awareness is attractive.

Healthy boundaries are attractive.

Autonomy and agency are attractive, no matter your role.

The only people genuinely interested in you having no limits are the dangerous ones we don’t want in this community.

Limits Can Evolve, and That’s Great!

Now, let me be very clear, it is okay to revisit limits. You can say, “This has always been a hard limit for me, but I want to try it.” It must be your idea, your choice, and free from coercion. I’ve done this myself. Bastinado was a hard limit for me due to health reasons. One day, I decided I wanted to try it. We did, and learned I can do it on one foot only. Knowledge gained. Limits respected. That’s how it should work.

Why Limits Matter (Beyond Safety)

Limits aren’t just about physical safety. They show that you understand,

Your mental state

Your emotional health

Your triggers

Your body’s physical limitations

It is okay to say, “I usually love this kink, but today my body is operating at a level four, and I just don’t have the capacity.”

That kind of awareness makes you safe, mature, and deeply valuable in this lifestyle. Please, take the time to learn yourself, so others can learn and love you better. Be aware of the risks. Mistakes will happen. That’s life. But you can minimize harm by educating yourself and honoring your boundaries.

It took me eight years in this lifestyle to fully understand that I was allowed to do all of this. Having limits does not make you weak. It does not make you a coward. It does not make you any less of an incredible Dominant or submissive.

If anything, it makes you stronger.

I Need People to Stop Pretending It Is

I want to talk about something that gets constantly misunderstood in power exchange dynamics, especially by people who claim authority but avoid responsibility. **Discipline is not the same as funishment. **They are not equal. They are not interchangeable. And they do not create the same reactions in my body or my mind.

When I am given impact as discipline, it carries meaning far beyond sensation. It comes with the very real knowledge that I have seriously misstepped. That I have displeased my Masters. That I failed to meet the expectations I knowingly agreed to when I entered this dynamic. That weight matters. It humbles me. It grounds me. It reinforces my place. And most importantly, it holds me accountable.

Funishment, on the other hand, can exist for many different reasons. It can be playful. It can be corrective lite. It can be teasing, erotic, or motivational. It does not carry the same emotional gravity or internal reckoning. And that’s okay, because it serves a different purpose. What is not okay is, when a Dominant or Master says they refuse to spank or give impact discipline because I enjoy kinky things, or because I am a masochist.

In my opinion, that mindset is irresponsible, and yes, abusive!

Enjoying sensation does not magically remove the corrective power of discipline. Context matters. Intent matters. Tone matters. Authority matters. Discipline is not defined by whether I can enjoy pain, it is defined by why it is being given and what it is meant to correct. Using “you’d enjoy it” as an excuse to avoid discipline is, quite frankly, lazy. And in my experience, it often comes paired with something worse.

Ignoring!

I want to be clear here: there is a healthy way to create space. Being told to remove myself until my behavior is corrected, or until I can speak with respect, is valid. That is structured. That is communicated. That is still leadership. But flat out ignoring me? No response to texts. No emails. No calls. No eye contact. No conversation face to face. That is not discipline. That is not correction. That is emotional withdrawal.

And that is not healthy, it is abusive.

Discipline reinforces my dynamic. It reminds me of my place. It tells me that my actions matter enough to be addressed directly. It shows me that my Masters are willing to do the work of leadership, even when it’s uncomfortable. It shows me that I am seen. When someone tells me they won’t discipline me because I enjoy kinky things, impact play, and that I am a masochist, what I actually hear is, *I don’t want to take responsibility. *And I’m done accepting that.

Dominance is responsibility. Authority is effort. Discipline is care, even when it doesn’t feel good. So no, discipline and funishment are not the same. And using that confusion as an excuse to disengage is not protecting me. It is failing me. Bottom line: refusing to spank me or give appropriate punishment because I might enjoy sensation is lazy and abusive. So please, stop doing it.

She Came to Me in Scent and Silence

I didn’t wake up shaken by this dream. I woke up held.

In the dream, I was back at my childhood home, my Mema’s house, after she had passed. The air felt heavy in that way old houses do when they’re full of memory. I wasn’t there to linger. I was there to clean. To sort. To decide what stayed and what was finally ready to go.

And then I smelled her perfume.

Not imagined. Not faint. Present. Anyone who has lost someone they love knows how powerful scent is. It bypasses logic. It bypasses time. The moment her perfume filled the room, I knew, this wasn’t memory. This was presence. This was my Mema letting me know she was there with me, watching, witnessing, not clinging or pulling me backward, but standing beside me as I moved forward.

Cleaning her house felt like more than grief work. It felt liminal, like I was standing between the life I’ve lived and the life I’m stepping into. Every object I touched asked a question, Does this still serve me? Does this carry wisdom, or only weight?

When I found her dreamcatcher, I stopped.

I didn’t keep everything. I didn’t want to. But that, I chose. I claimed it intentionally. Not out of sentimentality, but out of knowing. I said aloud that I wanted to keep it, and I handed it to Damon. That mattered. It wasn’t about possession. It was about trust. About shared guardianship. About allowing protection to exist outside of my own hands.

And then the owl came.

A large white owl descended from above and landed on my arm. It didn’t circle. It didn’t threaten. It didn’t test me. It chose me. And it stayed.

White owls don’t carry fear for me. They carry clarity. Wisdom that sees in darkness. The kind of knowing that doesn’t need noise or force. This owl felt ancient and quiet and sure. It arrived only after I claimed what I was carrying forward. After I made a choice rooted in discernment, not fear. It refused to leave.

That’s when I understood, this dream wasn’t about loss. It was about transition. About protection during a crossing. About being guided, not pushed, into a better future.

Through a Norse lens, this feels deeply ancestral. The disir, female ancestral guardians, are said to stay close, especially through maternal lines. They don’t haunt. They guard. They guide. They witness. And sometimes they come not as faces, but as sensations. As scent. As animals that see what others can’t.

This owl could be my fylgja, my spirit companion, appearing because I’m in the middle of an identity shift, a grief integration, a becoming. It could be Freyja touched energy, tied to fate and spirit walking between worlds. Or it could simply be the shape my protection needed to take so I could understand it.

What I know is this, I am not walking alone.

Even the presence of my Masters in the dream matters. They weren’t directing me. They weren’t controlling the process. They were simply there. Witnessing. Containing. Offering structure while I did heavy inner work. It didn’t feel like submission loss. It felt like chosen safety. Like being held steady while I sorted through something sacred. This dream didn’t warn me. It affirmed me.

It told me that my grief is integrating, not consuming me. That I am allowed to keep what is sacred. That I am protected while I walk through shadow. That my intuition is deepening, and that I can trust it. Most of all, it told me that my Mema hasn’t left me behind.

She came to me in scent and silence to say, I’m here. You’re doing well. Keep going. Very fitting for day five of Yule!