There’s been a war brewing on my head lately

Fifteen years of being a blonde badass. Bright hair. Loud fire.

Wild woman energy you could spot from across a room. Now…I’m crawling my way back to my roots. Literally. Back into the dark haired enchantress I was before the bleach before the upkeep the performance of it all.

And fuck me I’ve left it way longer between hair appointments this time. Which means the silver streaks are coming through hard now. Not timid little threads either. Proper witch sparkles. Lightning bolts from the scalp.

Some days I catch them in the mirror and feel overwhelming gratitude. Because these silver hairs mean I am still fucking here. Living. Ageing. Becoming. I think of the people we’ve buried too soon the women and men who never got the privilege of growing older and suddenly these silver strands feel sacred. Like tiny ancestral threads woven through my crown.

Then the pendulum swings the other way and I feel the pressure. The shitty suffocating beauty standards whispering that grey means expired. That women must remain polished, youthful, consumable. That we must scrub away every trace of time as if ageing is some moral failure instead of proof we survived. I’ve realised something through all of this turning grey does not automatically mean I’m entering my crone era.

Not yet. I’m still deep in my enchantress era. The dark goddess era. The liminal space before the new moon. The fertile void. The phase where things are becoming but haven’t fully revealed themselves yet.

This is where I start beefing with the whole Triple Goddess thing.... it has never fully fit for me. Never sat right in my bones.

Years ago one of my old witchcraft mentors used to speak passionately about this. Back before dark feminine work became Instagram aesthetics and shadow work captions slapped over heavily filtered selfies. Back when people were still genuinely terrified of the dark feminine. She spoke about the missing pieces. The swallowed aspects. The untamed woman hidden between the lines…..something in me growled in recognition every single time. Because I always felt it. The Maiden-Mother-Crone model felt… neat. Too neat….almost sanitised. Way too easy to package up into spiritual digestibility.

Do you know what life is not fucking neat. Nature certainly isn’t. If you actually look at the cycles around us the real cycles they are not threefold. There are four moon phases. Four seasons. Four directions. Four stages of a woman’s bleed. Nature moves in thresholds and transitions and death spaces and rebirth spaces. Not tidy little spiritual Pinterest boards.

Before someone starts frothing at the mouth yes I know the history of the Triple Goddess. I know where it came from. A massive influence was Robert Graves through his book The White Goddess. He proposed this idea that ancient European myths carried remnants of one great moon goddess split into three aspects.

Beautiful….Absolutely. Influential…..Hugely. Historically airtight….Not really. A lot of historians consider his work wildly speculative rather than academically solid. But spiritually and Culturally…It spread like wildfire through modern paganism and later through movements shaped by figures like Gerald Gardner.

Now it’s become almost untouchable in modern witchcraft spaces. Repeated so often people rarely stop to question it. But I will. Gladly. Repeatedly. Loudly.

Somewhere along the line, “Mother” became this giant catch all category that swallowed entire landscapes of womanhood whole. The seductress. The destroyer. The initiatrix. The wild woman. The grief bearer. The erotic woman. The rage filled woman. The woman standing in the ashes of her own becoming. those aspects deserve their own names.

Their own fires. Their own seats at the altar.

Historically too many ancient systems were actually fourfold. the obsession with “three” became mystical shorthand through Indo-European mythic structures and later occult romanticism. Birth-life-death. Past-present-future. Maiden-mother-crone.

Nice and symmetrical. nature itself has never given a single fuck about symmetry. The forest rots while it blooms. The moon disappears before she returns. Women become many women across a lifetime. some of us refuse to carve ourselves into neat digestible archetypes just because modern spirituality likes things aesthetically pleasing and easy to market.

Maybe that’s why the dark feminine always called me louder. She felt honest. Grounded. Ancient. Not evil. Not corrupted. Just whole.

Maybe these silver streaks aren’t signs of decline at all. Maybe they’re the first visible markings of a woman becoming more herself than ever before.