Her Mother Tongue

Felicia Sol

I come from women who survived by shrinking. I tried that too—made my life neat, made my voice polite, made my longing a private hobby. It didn’t hold. I was raised by an alcoholic Lakota runaway and discipled by a cult that told me holiness was obedience. My body knew better. It kept humming: there is a wilder, kinder way. These days I practice a daily liturgy of listening—intuitive, erotic, embarrassingly tender. I mother four bright beings and the girl inside me who wanted to be free. I teach self-worth as sacrament, boundaries as mercy, and desire as a compass you can trust. My God is love. My work is remembering. My offering is a rebel’s theology of transformation—usable, embodied, just dangerous enough to set you honest. hermothertongue.substack.com

  1. 12小时前

    Mother for hire

    Felicia explores the everyday altar of motherhood—where care becomes love when it’s shared, not hoarded. Through a Dark Goddess lens (Dancing in the Flames), she reframes “self-sacrifice” as a broken cauldron and argues for boundaries, shared labor, and the courage to receive as prerequisites for giving. Pop-culture moments (a “Gatsby gala,” The Hunger Games, and “They were careless people”) help teach our kids what not to emulate—and what to build instead. What you’ll hear: Children as initiations, not nuisances The altar vs. the martyr: why love requires reciprocity Grief, regret, and the tenderness of shared care The Dark Goddess as a guide to wholeness (laundry-room altars, Baba Yaga questions) Why boundaries, rest, and pleasure keep the “cauldron” from cracking Teaching discernment in a spectacle-driven culture References & resources: Marion Woodman & Elinor Dickson, Dancing in the Flames: The Dark Goddess in the Transformation of Consciousness F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (“They were careless people…”) Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (the Capitol as spectacle) Takeaways: Caring is love’s teacher—but only when it’s shared. You can’t pour from an empty body; you also can’t pour if you never receive. Ordinary rooms can be altars; ordinary tasks can be rituals. Our magic isn’t gone—it’s waiting for a stronger pot. If this moved you, share it with one friend who’s carrying too much—and subscribe on Substack for essays, early drops, and members-only conversations. Get full access to Her Mother Tongue at hermothertongue.substack.com/subscribe

    4 分钟
  2. 4天前

    How I Dropped Purity Culture

    Felicia traces a lineage of women who never rested grandmother, mother, herself—and the moment she burned down a “perfect” life to make space for truth. This is a tender, feral meditation on rest, eros, and the inner girl who only appears when she’s loved. A rebel’s theology of transformation, usable, embodied, a little dangerous. Episode Highlights The women who never sat down: inherited hustle, tender pride, and the cost of being “good.” The pedestal and the cage: how “perfect wife/mother” scripts sanctify our exhaustion. On virgin myths and hidden bodies: why purity culture tries to sterilize the erotic. The fire moment: choosing truth over optics and watching the old house burn. Meeting the inner fairy: rescuing the malnourished self from the cave. Rest as resistance: moving from self-betrayal to self-belonging. Boundaries as mercy; desire as compass; devotion as daily, embodied practice. Mary Magdalene’s subversive gospel: the treasure is within; rules without love are cages. Learning to be seen without apologizing—and the holy art of posting, deleting, and trying again. What it means to mother four souls while re-mothering yourself. Who this episode is for Women who are tired of being the exhibit of “having it all,” mothers who feel guilty for wanting more, ex-good girls, and anyone ready to trade performance for presence. Listener Takeaways A simple reframe: “I don’t need to be better; I need to belong to myself.” A mini-practice for rest you’ll actually do (bath, sun, nap, movement, kiss, post, delete, try again). One permission slip: Your desire isn’t the problem, it’s the map. Get full access to Her Mother Tongue at hermothertongue.substack.com/subscribe

    6 分钟
  3. Whitewashed Peace

    10月27日

    Whitewashed Peace

    If you prefer to read …. I watched a show last night… A tiny superhero girl crawls through a man’s brain. I can see the relief. But isn’t it connected? You’re like, whoa, that is MORBID. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s perfectly normal. That feeling, I mean. Bear with my ramblings. Normally they churn into something productive. I must have some audacity to think people want to hear anything I say. Is that at the heart of our suffering? Do we deem ourselves unworthy by default? Is that why we seek a God—validation outside of ourselves? Just questions. That’s what my brain is full of. I won’t ever answer them all, will I? So… do I just chill? Do people just chill? I shouldn’t even have a phone. I wake up every day expecting to save the whole world from my kitchen table—with the last of my food in the fridge, unsure how I’ll feed my babies next month. I see babies across the world starving, girls walking the streets of LA selling their souls, the man on the corner outside the concert venue. Our position to the right of him—leaving the joy of a concert with full bellies, hand in hand with a lover, laughing with friends—our position is temporary. Life can remind us of our equality in a split second. A world revolving around power. A world revolving around money. A world often devoid of love, full of souls that require it. So it’s no wonder that when religion is used as escape, it haunts our world. It promises an exit from this pain-body, somewhere to end up when we blow this world to hell. The world is frustrated. The women are frustrated. We’ve been ignored so long. But we are lovers. We smile at rainbows and the sun shining through the crowds. Lovers trying to love a world that bypasses love because it bypasses feeling. Because a bomb can end it all. Because physical life “doesn’t matter,” because we’re going to Heaven. When religion forgets embodiment, it becomes isolated, forgetful. Religion is isolated. Religion is forgetful. Religion is not embodied. And what of non-dualism? It can also become an escape hatch: “We’re all one,” so pain becomes abstract. Any path, Christian, secular, mystical, can drift into bypassing when it refuses to feel. A chance to escape reality. To know that we are all one. So pain is numb. Pain in the body becomes irrelevant. We will POOF into the cosmos. . . ENLIGHTNMENT NOW. Mmmmm, I am cosmic now that these mushrooms have shown me the way out of myself. Have you ever held an infant in your arms after they ripped through your womb, as your labia pulsed from the pressure, blood clots oozing like jellyfish from your open core? God, cosmos, forever and this moment in your arms? Have you ever held the hand of the dying? Promised them comfort you knew nothing of. That you loved them? Have you lost someone too soon? Your brain repeating the last moment you saw them on loop, psycho torture device. Our true understanding lies in our blood, our heart, our love (feminine) … “God”, cosmos, intellect (masculine) illuminates this work. So though the pain of facing this world threatens to destroy me I seek to illuminate it. I will not push aside the pain of this existence. I will not deny the truth of our birth, blood covered and helpless, dead unless for love. Love the body, the milk of a human mother, the pulse of her body sustaining my existence. An offering. One made against wills, against abilities, against desire. We are nothing without The Mother and we have forgotten her. We have followed a half truth of our existence. We KILL AND FIGHT in the name of a God who is trying to illuminate love. God sent his Son, through woman … God sent us to feel. He gave us this weak body to experience pain. We age and die to show us we are limited. To teach us to give, to offer the dregs of ourselves to another. In small consistent ways we are taught to mute our bodies. As I woke to the sensations of my living body truth flooded me. I crashed into despair and confusion. Waking up felt like “ruining a good thing,” but my body was screaming a truth I couldn’t come to with my mind, so conditioned I was. Aliveness is messy and merciful; it breaks false order. It forces us into alignment if we choose to listen instead of ignore ourselves. TODAY’S PRACTICE Practice (today): Put a hand on your sternum. Inhale for 4, hold 2, exhale for 6—three rounds. Whisper: be here. Question: Where am I buying “peace” with self-abandonment? Name one micro-course-correct you’ll make today. I choose presence every second. Some seconds, minutes, hours slip away in mindlessness; and I recorrect. Blessing: May your honesty gather the right people and release the wrong rooms. Go gently, not quietly. Until tomorrow, keep your throat chakra open. Get full access to Her Mother Tongue at hermothertongue.substack.com/subscribe

    8 分钟
  4. Radical Sobriety

    10月23日

    Radical Sobriety

    A raw meditation on divorce, identity, and learning to meet life without anesthesia. Felicia traces the mapless terrain of choosing herself—moving from control to consent, from dissociation to the honeyed present, and from inherited scripts to a voice that won’t whisper anymore. Listen for “The journey home does not have a map”—why control promises safety but charges anxiety Body-led navigation: letting sensation guide when sight can’t Radical sobriety as telling the truth without numbing Thich Nhat Hanh’s sink-and-tea teaching made practical in motherhood Timestamps 00:00 Intro + HMT ethos 00:21 “Radical Sobriety” begins 01:27 The gut-wrench / dissociation / choosing trust 03:25 Off-grid decision: divorce and walking without GPS 05:27 Clean pain vs. control; consent as freedom 06:08 Thich Nhat Hanh on dishes & presence 07:21 The vow: choosing the next honest inch 07:52 Sign-off A taste... “It is the state of radical sobriety to meet life without anesthesia… letting truth turn down the volume on pain.” “Control says, ‘If I can predict it, I can survive it.’ Consent says, ‘If I can feel it, I can be free.’” “If home is anywhere, it’s here—in the unguarded now.” Mentioned Thich Nhat Hanh on mindful dishwashing (from The Miracle of Mindfulness) Join the Substack for essays, early drops, and members-only chaos → Subscribe.Follow on Spotify• Apple Podcasts • IG → @hermothertongue Get full access to Her Mother Tongue at hermothertongue.substack.com/subscribe

    9 分钟
4.9
共 5 分
445 个评分

关于

I come from women who survived by shrinking. I tried that too—made my life neat, made my voice polite, made my longing a private hobby. It didn’t hold. I was raised by an alcoholic Lakota runaway and discipled by a cult that told me holiness was obedience. My body knew better. It kept humming: there is a wilder, kinder way. These days I practice a daily liturgy of listening—intuitive, erotic, embarrassingly tender. I mother four bright beings and the girl inside me who wanted to be free. I teach self-worth as sacrament, boundaries as mercy, and desire as a compass you can trust. My God is love. My work is remembering. My offering is a rebel’s theology of transformation—usable, embodied, just dangerous enough to set you honest. hermothertongue.substack.com

你可能还喜欢