Every culture has a Dark Goddess. And every mother carries her.

She shows up in the middle of the night when you’re washing dishes under a half-broken moon, wondering who you were before all of this. She whispers from the corner of your tired ribcage when you’re tending small children and carrying the ghosts of your own maternal line. Sometimes she comes crashing in like a storm you didn’t expect. Rage, grief, intuition, wild knowing, all the things you were told were “too much,” “not real,” or “not motherly.”

But here, in this space, she’s not the villain. She’s the missing medicine.

I built this work because I lived the split. I lived the “good mother” mask, the spiritual bypass, the pressure to glow while quietly drowning. And then, thank the ancestors, I met the underworld mothers. Kali, Lilith, Hekate, Ereshkigal, Baba Yaga, the Cailleach, Cerridwen…the Ones who don’t care if they explode your ego on the way to your rebirth. The Ones who remind you that creation requires destruction, that boundaries are holy, and that your darkness is a portal.

When I became a mother of five and felt myself unravel, it wasn’t breathing exercises or getting more sleep that saved me. It was story. It was archetype.
It was the old gods and goddesses. And it was the bones of my Scottish and English maternal line rattling awake inside me.

Now, this is what I offer other mothers: a way home to the whole mother, the radiant and the shadowy, the nurturing and the wild, the tender and the truth-telling.

I use archetypal astrology to map the psyche, mythology to restore what culture erased, and depth psychology to guide the descent. Together, we work at the edges, where grief becomes depth, where anger becomes sovereignty, where spiritual experience becomes embodiment, where ancestral wounds become portals of power.

This is a space for mothers who long to remember, who ache, who sense the otherworld breathing through the cracks of daily life, who know they’re carrying far more than what it looks like on the surface. The mothers who feel the old stories waking up in them. The ones who are done pretending.

Welcome. This is where the descent becomes the initiation. This is where mothers rise whole.