Medicine Within Medicine: A Journey Through Serpent, Shell, and Sensitivity
Part Two of Rising from Darkness: The Healing That Followed the Descent
Shortly after I posted my last piece of writing, I returned to Substack to re-read it—this time aloud, slowly, in my own voice.
If you’re just arriving, Part One offers the first glimpse into this journey—read it here:
What had poured through me as medicine during its creation now unveiled even more layers as I spoke it into the world.
Medicine within medicine.
As I often do, I sent the piece to my mom.
It left her speechless.
She told me it stirred memories of her father, her grandmother, her sister—loved ones who too had suffered in the ways I wrote about.
She said I had given voice to the silent struggles of many, and in doing so, offered a glimmer of hope.
She admitted she hadn’t known the depth of what I was going through as a teenager.
That she wished she had, so she could have reminded me that she was always there for me.
Though she couldn’t see me back then, she sees me now—through my words, through the medicine I’ve shared.
And to me, that is enough.
I understand now that some paths are meant to be walked alone—until they’re not.
That solitary journey brought me to a place of deep healing and the knowing that I’ve never truly been alone.
I am held.
Held by my ancestors, by those who love me, by the sacred animals that walk beside me.
And held by my mother, who has been with me since before my very first breath.
The Jaguar's Arrival
As I read my words back to myself, I realized this piece was woven with the essence of my recent shamanic journey with Jaguar.
From the lush canopy above me, Jaguar took form—rising from the plant I lay beneath—before merging with my being.
Together, as one, we traveled further into the jungle’s depths by canoe.
As we reached the shore, deep, water-filled footprints in the mud greeted me—the sacred path of the Jaguar Council.
As I stepped ashore, I was swallowed by darkness.
Then, a dancing light appeared—a star that shifted into bubbling mud.
It wrapped around me, pulling me under.
I fought. Struggled.
Until I surrendered.
And when I did, I emerged on the other side in the clear waters of a cenote.
It echoed the memory of struggling alone in a stormy sea.
The more I resisted the waves—and the bubbling mud—the more it gripped me, trying to pull me under.
But the moment I surrendered, stopped fighting, and allowed myself to be taken, I emerged exactly where I was meant to arrive.
Serpent and Shadow
As I climbed my way out of the cenote, the Jaguar Council began to emerge behind me—one by one, rising from the water, sleek and powerful, their bodies glistening in the light.
Together, we padded through the jungle in a serpentine formation, weaving silently between trees and shadows.
Then, in one fluid motion, we merged—becoming a single, massive black anaconda with the head of a dragon and glowing red eyes.
Our enormous body moved with force, toppling trees as we carved a path through the forest.
Eventually, we unraveled—splitting back into our Jaguar forms—while the serpent continued alone, disappearing deeper into the jungle.
Later in the journey, I found myself hunting that same beast—meeting it in the very river I had once traveled by canoe.
A violent battle erupted, our bodies thrashing against the cliff walls.
Claws tore, teeth clashed, and the strength of our coiled forms sent water surging in towering waves.
In a final, powerful leap, I sank my massive jaws into the base of its skull and tore out its spine.
Its glowing red eyes faded.
That light dimmed—and entered me.
I consumed its essence.
But that wasn’t the only serpent I met.
There was another—one that didn’t call for war, but for something far more tender.
It was the one that had dragged me down to the depths of the sea time and time again.
This time, I didn’t fight. I didn’t thrash. I didn’t try to escape.
Instead, I gently reached for it.
I slipped the mask from its face, and beneath it, I saw the pain—the ache that had lived so long in silence.
I gave it space.
I listened.
I wrapped it in stillness, in breath, in warmth.
And in doing so, I freed it.
The light returned to its eyes.
To my eyes.
The same way I absorbed the glowing red eyes of the serpent in battle, I now witnessed the soft reawakening in the eyes of my teenage self—the girl who had once felt invisible in her pain.
I didn’t conquer this beast with force.
I set her free with love.
Grasshopper and the Shell
A few days later, my husband was at the grill preparing a feast—T-bone steaks and roasted asparagus—while our daughter ran back and forth across the yard, laughing with pure delight.
That’s when I saw it: a massive grasshopper, striped like a tiger.
I froze. I’ve been afraid of large insects for as long as I can remember, yet something in me softened.
It felt like it had something to share with me.
I knelt down to observe it—its body strong, its markings strikingly beautiful—all while thinking to myself, “Please don’t jump on me… please don’t jump on me!”
The next day, after I had finished writing about my journey to the bottom of the sea, I was outside while my daughter played and I spoke on the phone with my soul sister, Sommer—who had just begun her own journey with the medicine woman Kipa—when I saw the grasshopper again, climbing the fence with slow, deliberate grace.
Moments later, I glanced down—and there, between my feet, lay a small seashell, as if it had been placed there with care.
It stopped me mid-sentence.
Pristine.
It looked like it had come straight from an ocean-side gift shop.
I picked it up, and as I turned it over, sand spilled from its hollow.
I live in a canyon, inland from the beach—too far for something like this to simply end up here.
Its presence felt intentional.
Placed.
A gift? A message?
From who?
What for?
My inner world stirred, seeking to decode the message in this moment.
The Gift of Being Seen
I didn’t connect the dots until I re-read my blog the following day.
Until my mother reminded me of something I hadn’t fully grasped—that I had given voice to those who have suffered.
That I had descended into the depths of the sea, pulled off the mask of darkness that had so often dragged me under, and met the part of myself who had long felt invisible.
I listened to her.
I held her.
I freed her.
And then it hit me:
The shell was a gift from the sea.
A gift from my teenage self.
From the ones who came before me.
Delivered by Ancestor Grasshopper—the bringer of gifts, the bearer of quiet wisdom—reminding me that I am not alone.
That I am heard.
That I am seen.
That I am supported—on both sides of the veil.
And with that, a deep gratitude rose within me—for the space that was held, for the pain that was witnessed, and for the voices that were finally allowed to speak.
The Wisdom of Sensitivity
As I sat with everything that had unfolded—the Jaguar, the serpent, the sea, the shell, and Grasshopper’s quiet arrival—it became clear that this was not just a mystical journey.
It was also a mirror reflecting what it means to be a highly sensitive person in this world.
As a highly sensitive soul, I have always felt things deeply—sometimes too deeply for my own comfort.
I’ve spent much of my life trying to battle the overwhelm, to quiet the noise, to be “stronger” in the ways the world often defines strength.
But in these sacred encounters, I was shown a different kind of power.
The kind that doesn’t roar, but listens.
The kind that doesn’t conquer, but gently uncovers.
The kind that honors sensitivity not as weakness, but as a portal to wisdom.
In the battle with the serpent-dragon, I met intensity with intensity.
And yet, it was in the quiet, in the moment I chose to sit beside my inner sea-serpent and remove its mask with tenderness, that the deepest healing occurred.
Sensitivity gave me the capacity to notice. To feel. To hold space for the parts of myself—and the ones who came before me—that had long been silenced.
Grasshopper’s appearance reminded me that sensitivity often brings unexpected gifts.
That even in the face of fear or discomfort, there is beauty to be found when we slow down and listen.
That sometimes, wisdom doesn’t arrive as a crashing storm—but as a shell in the dirt, a soft whisper carried on ancient wings.
This story taught me that being highly sensitive means having the courage to feel the fullness of life—not just the pain, but the messages hidden within it.
That my softness is a strength.
That the medicine I carry is in my presence, my perception, my ability to witness what others overlook.
And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.
A Blessing for the Sensitive Ones
To those of you reading—
especially you who feel the world
with every layer of your being—
May this space be a mirror
reflecting your own sacred becoming.
A soft place to land.
A quiet breath amid the noise.
May you feel safe enough
to remove the masks
you’ve worn to survive—
and cradle the stories
you once tucked away in silence.
May you hold your tenderness
not as something to hide,
but as something holy.
May the wisdom within you
rise gently to the surface—
not rushed, not forced,
but honored like a tide returning home.
I hold this space for you—
to be heard,
to be seen,
to be felt.
You are not alone.
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