Do you Need to SWAMP?

I must be ascendant of swamp flowers —
My eyes find blessing in heavenly grays;
When my feet touch the muddy soil,
My soul is uplifted, by Mother Earth.
My arms spread like newborn petals
My lips unfold, under the rain

What’s more,
Unwelcoming arms to stormy whistles
Lips that curse the veil-like drizzles
Eyes unenchanted by dancing ripples;
They are not a home, for me.


If you are a Womxn, you probably experience a lot of emotions. On a deep level.
That is the nature of Womxn. We feel.

Regardless of this simple fact, the nature of our male dominated society means that throughout the centuries our feelings have been reduced to labels: too much, over the top, over-reactive, hysterical, unproductive and unwelcome.

Because we feel, Womxn have felt these labels in a big, big way.

There are a few fundamental qualities a human-being needs to thrive in this world and most can be boiled down to Love, Safety and Belonging.

So when an intuitive, feeling Womxn recognises that she/they are perceived as too much, or that they are unwelcome, they experience a very real threat against their humanity:
the threat of not belonging.

Cast your mind back to Highschool. Whether you personally experienced it or you witnessed it you will recall beings who visibly did not belong. You probably noticed a shurnkenness to them, a timidity, a translucent, almost sickly, invisibility.

Sometimes when a Womxn feels like they don’t belong they try to shrink themselves. They try to banish their feelings to a far off land, turning their back on themselves. But these feelings don’t go away, they remain, like a cloud looming above their head, suffocating their capacity to see any signs of light.

Emotional suffocation. When a Womxn tries to outrun their emotions and then succumbs by becoming their emotion. They believe they are their grief, anger, resentment, fear, pain – they are stuck, they have become their feelings.

Returning to high-school there is another type of Womxn, one you may not have easily noticed. It is the Womxn who feels deeply, and is scared of that feeling. Having witnessed their Emotionally suffocating peers they believe their feelings, if found out, will make them not belong. So they vow to themselves that no one will ever know what they are feeling on the inside.

Emotional suppressors. When a Womxn feels an ocean of feelings but fears gravely what might happen if these feelings are discovered they have no other choice but to become numb.

Their body churning with an ocean of emotions with nowhere to go they internally start to shut down. They know how to plaster a smile on their face for the outside world, but inside they are dying, like a flower without sunlight, forgotten and distorted.

Both suffocating and suppressing feelings cause a Womxn to lose their true belonging.

But it is not lost. It is born again through rupture.

Womxn are born to rupture.

We know how to feel.

We know how to move our emotions through us, like a fire raging through the bush we can clear out the debris of our own heart and of the whole world.

We are MEANT to feel our feelings. To feel them and let them move through us, like fire, like a wave, like the wind, like an earthquake – all of these natural elemental experiences have a beginning, middle and end.

The trick no one taught us is that instead of running away from our emotions we should be running towards them. Crying when our heart is hurting. Screaming when we are enraged. Purging when we are sickened by atrocities.

WE NEED TO LET OURSELVES FEEL. WHEN WE FEEL WE HEAL.

Have you ever noticed that your feelings heighten before your menstruation? They say our menstruation forces us to say, and feel all that we have been bottling away from the previous cycle.

Imagine if you hadn’t bottled a thing?

Imagine if your friend called you and told you that their Mother had cancer and you said and then together you cried in pain and fear. Imagine if you saw footage from a refugee camp and the injustice of it all made you so sick that you got onto your hands and knees and you wailed for 10 minutes straight. Imagine if your daughter told you that a man on the train had been looking at her creepily, and you both picked up a dish cloth and started smashing it against the wall screaming obscenities at him, and at all those beings who make Womxn feel unsafe.

This is SWAMPING. A practice born by Mumma Gena – author of Pussy. The intentional practice of noticing your feelings and then letting them be fucking felt. Letting them move, and purge through your body however they want without any restriction.

Have you ever seen a toddler have a tantrum? Mum won’t buy them that artificial candy and bam, they feel the injustice and then they express it. They drop to the ground, flail their tiny body around. Wraith in anger. And then they get up, return to mum for a hug – and continue their day.

That is what is possible for us adult Womxn. We don’t have to shut our bodies down. Dim our light. Kill ourselves to fit into a society that is, by design, not inclusive of 50% of the population.

We need to create a new norm around feelings.

For it to be normal to express our emotions healthily, to witness healthy emotional expression. To welcome feelings and celebrate feelings.


We will never stop feeling. But we can learn to love our feelings, find the blessings in their heavenly gray. Put our feet into their mud. Be uplifted, like a radiant swamp flower.


Melbourne! You can join me for SWAMPING alongside other womxn this Sunday – December 6th! This week’s Pussy Pride will be all about SWAMPING. When we SWAMP together the gap between us closes. We remember that we are all in this together, feeling different versions of the same struggles that are felt from the age of a toddler, to high-school, until the day we leave this earth.

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Introductory poem: The calm in the Storm by Clairel Estevez

Panda Points – A Celibate Tally of Self Love

Whilst roaming Africa years ago, I found myself tucked into a cosy corner deep in conversation with a fellow traveller, a witty Dutch woman. After an exchange of stories on my favourite topic- sex – and at that point in time, my lack of it, she questions: How many Panda Points are you on?

Panda Points?

Female pandas ovulate just once a year. When that precious window opens, you would think they’d be rearing to romp, but no. Pandas don’t get down with any ol’ lover, she is picky and turned off by the idea of fucking in captivity… go figure. This lousy libido has been analysed in dismay, as pandas literally unfuck their way towards extinction.

The Dutch woman explained that Panda Points are an award system for us humans, inspired by panda sex life, to calculate each month of celibacy — intended or not. The points accrue until they are either ‘banged-off’ or you hit the magic twelve: a full year without getting down to funky town. And then, it’s time for a Panda Party!

At a Panda Party, guests arrive in all manner of jungle-themed costumes, and at the centre of this hoopla, peacocks one virginal panda. Unsurprisingly, these parties often end with a panda costume laying flaccid and forgotten on the ground – Panda Points dissolved. 

At the time, a Panda Party sounded like a fabulous affair but I, Chloe the well fucked womxn, would never be its panda.

To me, even a month without sex felt like a farmer in the midst of a drought; filled with sickening fear for the livelihood of their wilting crop. To summons the rain god, the farmer would strip down naked, run out into the thirsty pastures, and dance — Rain down upon me!

Not unlike farmers, when I feared my sex-crop was wilting, I’d doll myself up, head to the smuttiest nightclub in town, and lure a cum god to rain upon my dry pastures.

Yet as we entered Melbourne’s second round of enforced human distancing and social isolation, no matter what these cum gods grumbled, we singles couldn’t do a damn thing about our panda-point scoreboards. Pandas in captivity, and we humans suddenly had a lot more in common.

In the beginning, the inability to connect, touch, cuddle, play, or fuck genuinely plummeted me into a grieving process.

First, denial: Whatever! Having sex is probably GOOD for a virus — sex makes people happy, and happy people have better immune systems! 

Then came anger: FUCK YOU COVID19! Can’t you see I’m in the PRIME OF MY YOUTH and deserve to be fucking according to my free will! 

Depression came knocking: This is the end. I am going to die alone, never to be touched or loved again, and buried with years worth of uncelebrated panda parties.

Then bargaining: Well maybe… I can get onto FetLife and meet someone with a mask and goggles on?

And finally… acceptance.


I accepted that for reasons beyond my understanding I was to surrender to the company of, not a ‘cum god’, but my own inner Goddess.

I chose to see isolation and my accruing panda points as a demand from the Self-Love-Goddess to ‘Get to know YOURSELF better than anyone has or ever could’.


From that moment I have journeyed through EVERY dark nook, and velvety cranny of my utterly unique being — mind, body and soul.


I have fed my mind with book after book so that I can learn all I can about sex, love and relationships. I have learnt to communicate with my pussy and ask her what she would like to do, wear, eat, listen to. I have learnt to penetrate her more lovingly than anyone EVER has before. I wept while she told me how often I had crossed her boundaries with past penetrations.
I have given myself cosmic orgasms with tools of breath, sound and movement.


I have met my inner-child, heard her pains, her longings and I have tended to them by empowering my inner-mother and inner-father. I have poured out my heart and filled it up with the sweet nectar of my learning that pleasure is a choice to be made every single day.


I have danced to pop for the first time in years. I have danced wildly to my beloved techno. I have screamed bloody murder dancing naked to Rage Against the Machine.


I manifested my dream home so that I could spend lockdown with a soul sister. I have coached incredible womxn over zoom and held space for their own transformations. I started my own freakin’ business. All this growth on the fuel of my sexual energy.


I have reached TWELVE MOTHER FUCKING Panda Points and I could not be more radiant.


At my Panda Party, guests arrived in all manner of jungle-themed costumes, and at the centre of the hoopla, peacocked one proud virginal panda…me.


A HUGE THANK YOU to my amazing friends for making my Panda Party more wholesome than ever imaginable – particularly Mumma Africa and Mr. Mt Kilimanjaro for all the time spent cutting out pussy’s, leaves and cocks!

Thank you to the EPIC Robyn Strathearn (Giraffe) for her stunning, always joyous photography.

Thank you to Caroline for helping me write this piece throughout the year before I even knew the article would be about me.

Thank you to Caity’s Cookies for providing the iconic vegan and gluten free cookies.

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Pussy Pride

Your Pussy is the portal to your radiance.

Ermmm, what in the fuck does that mean Chloe?

I have a newsflash for you, your Pussy is so, SO, much more than a pissing, bleeding, penetrable, birthing piece of anatomy!

Your Pussy is the place where the divine manifests. Your pussy is: Intuitive. Wise. Playful. Sensitive. Cosmic. Ancient. and Transcendental.

And yes, I know that may sound like a whole lot of fluffy woo woo fluff, but let me convince you further.

I know your Pussy wants me to. 


All those with a Pussy, put your hand up if you were encouraged to look at, explore, play with and pleasure your pussy as a youngin’…

Now put your hand up if you were told little to nothing about your Pussy, if it was referred to by an anatomically incorrect name*, if you were shamed or ashamed to touch your Pussy, and if upon discovering your Pussy’s capacity for pleasure: indulged in hurried held breath secrecy.

I cannot see your hands but my assumption is the vast majority of you were raised for the later of the childhood Pussy experiences.

And that is no surprise. You see, before you, there were generations of Mothers being taught to hide and feel ashamed of their Pussy. Pussy shame.

Religion taught our Mothers that Eve’s Pussy led to Adam’s downfall. Culture taught our Mothers that the sacred blood of Pussy was dirty and unholy. Modesty taught our Mothers never to talk to their daughters about their Pussy.

Pussy was once called ‘vagina’ meaning sheath – the place where a sword goes.

It was determined that unlike a proud external cock, the Pussy hid up inside the body because even Pussy anatomy itself was ashamed of itself…

Is there any wonder shame manifested and multiplied in our Mother’s, Mother’s, Mothers – and bled its way down into us?

Shame.

What is shame?

Shame signifies that our original radiance has been disrupted. Shame is born from outside ourselves when another person or circumstance triggers us, when we fail to meet the standards or ideals we have been raised with.

We are born whole and shame leads us to feel contrary; flawed, bad, excluded – and thus motivates us to hide or save face.

In other words, the shame you feel about your Pussy is not yours. It was bred into you. It was a pill you and generations before you were fed, for one reason.

To squash womxn. To make them forget the truth about their Pussy, that it is the place where the divine manifests. That it is: Intuitive. Wise. Playful. Sensitive. Cosmic. Ancient and Transcendental.

Your Pussy knows.

You know.

Connecting with your Pussy is opening yourself up to the full experience of being a womxn. Womxn are fucking magical. Holy shit.

If tomorrow every womxn on this planet woke up and connected with their pussy the world as we know it would come crumbling down, in the most radiant way.

Orgasms would ripple through far and wide.

Patriarchy would end.

Shame. Self depreciation. Body Dysmorphia. Bulimia. Depression. Anxiety. Self Hate. Self Loathing. Suicide. Racism. Homophobia. Transphobia.

It would all come crumbling the fuck down.

And an era of Goddess and Goddexxs would rise and radiate with their Pussies proud.
Their ability recognised to listen to their own inner wisdom. Their cosmic connection held in reverence. Their ability to play, more light and joyful than imaginable.

But we have a lot of work to do before we reach that idyllic world.

We have to recognise that building connection, love, and trust in our own Pussy is our own responsibility.

It was taught to us to shame Pussy, and now we must teach ourselves to love pussy and feel proud.

Love Pussy by talking to Pussy, looking at Pussy, dancing from Pussy, listening to Pussy, pleasuring for Pussy, asking Pussy advice, painting Pussy, honouring Pussy, allowing Pussy to be. Flowing, creating, manifesting from Pussy.

This is my divine work. I have and continue, every day, to deepen my connection with Pussy.

Pussy has radically radiated my fucking life.

There is nothing else I want to do than to teach other womxn and other Pussy owners to love their Pussy.

To feel the pain and injustice of the shame that was born into you, and then to let it the fuck go, and flow back home into what you always were. Radiant as fuck.

Melbournians! I Invite you to my end of lockdown event Pussy Pride. This will be an exclusive event for a limited number for beings with a Pussy who desire true connection, an injection of pussy Radiance before the New Year!

*Let’s stop calling a Pussy a hooha, thingy, down there, privates. This is the beginning of shame. Call a Pussy what it is. Not a vagina, that is the internal anatomy (and a shit name as you learnt). You choose the name: Pussy, Yoni, Vulva, Cunt. Whatever, choose one that makes you feel empowered, choose one consciously, and change the world.

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XX Chloe Adriana – Radical Radiance Coach

Stop Trying to Nine to Five your Menstrual Cycle

First and foremost, if your job is genuinely from 9 to 5 then wow, you fit into my title’s stereotype perfectly. I am however, well aware, that many of you reading this will work much, much longer hours than that.

And I want you to stop. Hear me out…

For far too long womb-beings* have been slotted into a system that doesn’t work for their bodies.

A womb-being is a cyclic being. Every 21-35 days (and varying) a womb-being sheds the inner lining of their uterus.

The day this blood arrives dripping or gushing out of their pussy is the first day of menstruation.

A quick overview of the cycle:

Note: This image depicts a womb-being with a 28 day cycle, this is a misleading average and it is completely normal to have a cycle that extends between 21-35 days. Mine is currently 35.

This information alone may be new to you, or it may not, something I wish to share is what runs parallel to your follicular (pre ovulation) and luteal (post ovulation) phases; the inner seasons.

Parallel to bleeding cyclically we womb-beings are aligned with seasons.

Menstruation = Winter

Thickening womb lining = Spring

Ovulation = Summer

Body detects pregnancy has not occured = Autumn

YES we are literally magical cyclic witches whose wombs go through seasons. And what do seasons have to do with working nine to five? Everything.

Let’s think of a tree;

When a tree enters Spring it is pumping out a lot of energy; it’s sprouting buds, flowers, it’s hyped with activity and soaking up the sun which is increasing each day.

Come Summer the tree is going off, it’s able to do a million things at once, be in full beautiful bloom, host various insects, birds, and adventurous climbing children.

Then Autumn rolls around, there are less visitors to the tree, its falling leaves give the impression that it is closing off a chapter, some energy remains in the process of letting the leaves fall but it certainly isn’t starting anything new.

Winter, by all accounts the tree is dead, but we know better. The tree is in a deep sleep, a sleep that is essential to its capacity to recharge and ready its-tree-self for the coming season.

Womb-beings are like this tree. We are capable of SO damn much, unbelievable amounts really. And we literally are not meant to do it all cycle long.We are not built for the patriarchal structure of 9-5, five days a week, 52 weeks a year. We’re just not!

Many womb-beings are taking a plethora of painkillers, suffering intense PMS, in agony from cramps, developing endometriosis, skipping Winter altogether with the contraceptive pill, and slowly but surely switching off and disconnecting from their bodies entirely.

AND I GET IT! I did it too. I numbed myself to make it through. To keep up. To meet the deadlines. To prove I was just as good as a man.

But I am not a man.

I am a womb-being and that is a fucking blessing.

When we stop fighting our seasons and start to flow with them everything changes. We learn how to do a month’s worth of work in two seasons (Spring, Summer) and to recuperate it all in the other (Autumn, Winter).

When we start to lovingly flow with our inner seasons our body speaks to us in kind; PMS and cramps can reduce, endometriosis and other such menstrual challenges can fade away.**

But what good is this information if you are in a profession that requires you nine to five?

You can begin to listen to your body within your work.

Buy yourself a daily diary and begin to record your cycle, see if you can work out which season you are in.

Record your emotions and begin to track which are recurring in each season.

From my own experience of doing this I know that during Autumn right before I bleed I always feel lonely.

According to your own tracking, begin to make the subtle adjustments that you can control.

For example, don’t allow challenging, potentially triggering meetings be booked on your heaviest bleeding day. Take that accrued leave during your Autumn phase and book yourself a massage. Schedule your overnight shifts during your Spring phase when you can conquer all. If you have flexibility, do your work from home for your full menstruation.

There is only one person in charge of your body and that is you. So stop and listen to it, make adjustments for it. Honour yourself as the magical cyclic witch you are. Screw the nine to five and live your one beautiful life your way.

*Womb-being is a new term I dreamt into creation for women who identify as women AND for beings who do not identify with the word woman but have a womb AND for womxn – who like me, have realised they don’t really feel like having the word ‘man’ inside their title.

**I am in no way claiming that following inner seasons will fix all cases of endometriosis, however it has been recorded to help many womb-beings to which I refer.

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Image by @la_morse

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything

I have come to the understanding that a womxn’s menstruation is more than a time to shed blood. It is a time to shed suppressed emotions, to shed tears laced with our deepest fears, it is a time to shed womb memories from our ancestors, and it is a time to shed our own womb trauma. For to be a womb-being on this earth is to know trauma.

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything.

My best friend and housemate Amber – previously known to long time readers as Zimbabawia – said this when I got off the phone.

I was upset.

Upset because I could sense a pattern emerging from my new interaction with a man.

Three weeks ago I had gone on the red hot pursuit of him. For the first two weeks I thoroughly enjoyed our communication, but as I entered the third week my interest was waning, and I felt myself less and less available.

It is important to note that when we began communicating I was in the Summer phase of my cycle, Ovulation. Fast forward two weeks and I had moved through Autumn and was well on my way to Winter – menstruation. Having become so much more aware of my emotional relationship to my menstruation this makes sense, Autumn and Winter are times for shedding and turning inwards.

On our call I spoke my brutal truth – ‘I actually don’t want to be asked questions, in fact I really don’t feel like talking to you at the moment. I just don’t want to connect online.’

Afterwards I was feeling like shit. In fact as I write this I can feel a heavy, dense and dark presence looming over me, and my laptop.

I spoke my truth to this kind man. Yet as I did it I kept hearing a voice in my head saying: ‘You’re a tease. You’re leading him on. You’re wasting his time.’

These harsh words are so against my core beliefs that although it was painful to hear, I thought, well maybe it’s because they’re really true? Maybe I hurt people with my desires, my flirtation, my wants.

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything.

Amber said this to me as I nestled my heavy head into her bosom, laying on the couch. And something landed. We stayed there for hours and my subconscious mind was coming to a deep sense of realisation.

You see, in the past I have been called those things: You’re a tease. You lead him on. You wasted his time.

I’ve been called them by men, by womxn, and even by family members. Although every time I fought the labels vehemently, I didn’t have any foundational evidence as to why that wasn’t true. When it happens enough times, you start to believe the labels you are assigned.

Cuddling on the couch finally gave me the time and connection that I needed to uncover my evidence.

It wasn’t long ago that I found out what the word boundaries meant. When I was told that I didn’t have strong boundaries I thought the person making this claim was talking about a fence around a paddock… I think that says enough.

But it was true, I didn’t have boundaries. When I began to be a sexually active young womxn I delighted in flirtation, banter, and randy dancing,and when things started to turn up a notch, and the receiver of my flirtation made an advance, I didn’t know how to back out of the situation…

I had initiated this flirting. This dancing. This Banter. So that meant I wanted it. Didn’t it?

I didn’t. But I did it anyway. Because I thought I had too. Because I believed I owed it.

It = my body, my mouth, my pussy.

This went on for some years, then eventually something started to shift. I remember a few times when I had engaged in an evening of flirtation and the recipient went to make the next move, I expressed my objection. My no.

And that’s when I got it: You’re a tease. You lead him on. You wasted his time.

From the men, from womxn, from a family member. I was fed this dialogue and I was furious.

Why was I being punished when it did not feel like I was doing anything wrong?

No one had an answer for me. I was left with these accusations, I didn’t even know I had taken them to be my truths.Until this week.

When I told that beautiful man my truth, that I wanted to reduce our communication, that I don’t want to connect online – there were two parts of me present.

First: The empowered, Goddess, Queen, part of myself who knows how to listen to her truth and then SPEAK it.
Second: My young, newly developed sexual little womxn. The one who was coerced into believing, ‘You owe them something. You owe them your body, your sex, your love.’

Writing this is my expression of bundling my sexual little womxn up into my arms and telling her that she never owed anyone anything. That she wasn’t doing anything wrong. That her love of flirting is a pure, and a beautiful form of moving her life force energy.

I am telling her right now that she always has and always will have the right to change her mind.

That every single other womxn has the right to change their mind too.

That our bodies are not properties.

That our actions are not contracts. ONLY our words. Only CONSENT. Always CHECKED IN ON.

I have come to the understanding that each menstruation is a beautifully painful opportunity to shed the trauma my younger self endured. To heal her wounds. To deprogram the narrative that a womxn owes everything. When in fact, she owes nothing.

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We are the witches they forgot to burn

I am a Witch. And I believe, if you have a pussy, you are one too. 

So what the hell is a Witch?

In pagan times a Witch was a womxn who was tapped into their innate wisdom, they had a deep connection to the natural world, to the spirit world, they had nurturing and healing capacities, they knew how to dance with darkness as deeply light, and above all, they believed in magic. 

When the church came to rise, the story of Jesus taught the world and Mary became the idyllic womxn. Faithful, trusting, loving… a virgin.

The qualities of the Witch did not align with the church’s ideals, in fact, Witches scared the shit out of the church, out of men who sought total power. 

And nothing scared man more than the Witches capacity to thrive in the shadows. So they used the only tool they had left. Violence and manipulation.

Manipulation:

The ancient Celtic festival, once known as Samhain, was held at the beginning of every winter.

On this night the Crone Goddess would mourn the loss of the Elder God, Summer, and the boundary between the world of the living and the dead became it’s thinnest. People would dress in costumes to ward off evil spirits and candles were lit to welcome spirits of departed loved ones.

This Pagan tradition was deeply sentimental and the church knew they couldn’t deter the people from celebrating and so instead created another celebration, All Saints’ Day, also called All-hallows or All-hallowmas. 


Violence. After years of the church’s legal and theological attacks on the heretics of Witches / witchcraft / sorcery / devil worship – irrational fear and a persecution, mentality was born.

Witches (womxn) were blamed for misfortunes of illness, crop failure, storms, rivalry, family feuds, livestock, politics, death, even sexual dysfunction.

The words ‘wit’ once meaning wise, ‘hag’ once meaning holy womxn, and ‘whore’ once meaning priestess were slowly contorted by venomous tongues to become blasphemous, dirty, shame-mongering words.

Witches helplessly watched as darkness encapsulated ‘man’ and soon, the Witch hunts began.

Witches were outed by the thousands. Womxn (Witches) were forced to turn on one another to save their own lives. And thus was born the word ‘bitch.’

With quick trials they were sentenced, burned and hung.

Fear was born and Witches went underground. And their legacy was left tainted in shame.

Oh yes, they did a very good job at changing an entire culture with fear, extermination, and indoctrination so embedded that children walked around the streets dressed up and receiving candy with absolutely no comprehension as to why.

Witches faded into the darkness of society’s mind.

But within all light there is darkness, and within all darkness there is light. 

Those of us who were not burned. Not hung. Lived on. Those who were hung or burned were reincarnated. Generations of little Witches kept on being born. And those little Witches kept on feeling that something about them was a little bit… different. A little bit …. magic. 

But it was scary to be different, especially among womxn, you see womxn – bitches, had been the biggest betrayal. For no betrayal is greater than that of a sister.

And yet throughout the centuries, as the little Witches grew more brave  they started to confide in their sisters. ‘This is something about me.’ he little sister would reply, ‘Me too’. 

Sistahood returned me to my realisation that I am a Witch. That I always knew I was.

I remembered the whole of my truth. The darkness to my light. 

You see light doesn’t mean ‘good’. And dark doesn’t mean ‘bad’. They both exist equally in a world of polarities. 

We are born from darkness, the depths of the womb is where we were created, where we grew. Beneath the soil is black and that is where a seed takes root. In the darkness of someone’s pain is where you find their true light. 

To practice witchcraft is to say:

Yes, I am powerful. 

Yes, I am a sovereign being. 

Yes, I can manifest my reality. 

Yes, nature is where I truly feel at home. 

Yes, all the answers I seek are within me. 

I trust my intuition. 

I know my existence is pure magic. 

So, Witch, are you ready to make magic again?

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Your pussy is not dead

Your Pussy is not Dead, said Lin as she stood with her finger hovering outside the entrance of my vagina.

Lin Holmquist is a well known Swedish Tantrica,  while l living in Sweden I was lucky enough to attend her Tantric Dating Master Class retreat co-lead by Aaron Kleinerman, and Australian tantra teacher.

I positively adored the 3 day retreat. I’d learnt about my serious lack of boundaries, how to rebuild them, I’d fucked someone’s third eye with my energetic cock, I’d learnt to dance with my pussy and I’d discovered how far my energetic body extended. 

But at the end of the retreat I was more sure than ever of a deep fear I’d been harbouring…That my pussy was dead.

You see before I’d arrived to Sweden I had taken a vow of celibacy, I’ll share more about that adventure another day. When the vow had been completed I promptly found a beautiful Swedish man to fuck.

He was a sweet and kind man, but there was a problem. I didn’t actually like him, and neither did my pussy. This was a habit I’d been in for years; fucking whomever I chose for the sake of fucking. 

Don’t get me wrong it was FUN. I loved how much liberation I felt in being able to own my inner slut.

But while my slut was having a great time there were other parts of me that were suffering. 

The parts of me that were soft, that were shy, that craved for love, and to really really  feel safe  before I let someone enter Pussy.

And so at the end of Lin and Aaron’s retreat when Lin shared that she offered Tantric Yoni Massages, I was a hell yes. If anyone could bring Pussy back to life I was sure it would be Lin.

We met in a private room, she welcomed me in and asked me to share what I desired from the session. 

I want to feel pleasure in my pussy again. I want her to wake up. I want to know she’s not dead. That I didn’t kill her by fucking too much.

She asked me to slowly undress in front of her, I had no problem with my body or nudity, yet my breath was shallow and my heart was beginning to race.

She came around behind me and used her pelvis to move mine, in a rocking motion so that I would relax… she sensed I was on edge. 

Once I was set up on the bed she told me, I’m going to go very slow, if at any point you want me to stop you must say. Once I get to the entrance of your vagina I will ask you if I can enter,

You must say no if you feel even the slightest no

I took a breath and willed my body to relax, I wanted this, I wanted her to reawaken Pussy. I wouldn’t let my stupid nerves ruin this. All these thoughts were zooming through my head and I wasn’t at all present as her hand made it’s way towards Pussy.

Then suddenly she was hovering at the entrance. May I enter?

My head way shouting yes yes, say yes! But A Force bigger than my thoughts took over..

No! 

No erupted from me before my mind could stop it.

What was I saying! I wanted this, I wanted my pleasure back! Didn’t I? As my mind reeled I looked up and Lin and she was smiling.

Why the fuck is she smiling I thought venomously. Do you feel it? She asked. 

Feel what there’s no bloody finger in me, but as I let the anger in me quieten down everything began to quieten down. And then I felt it.

From deep within me there was the undeniable electromagnetic pulsation extending it’s way out from the depths of my pussy and making a tendril of contact with Lin’s hovering finger.

It was like one of those galactic orbs I used to play with as a child, where you’d press your finger the lightening would connect with you.

Your pussy is not dead Chloe. She is very much alive. And I have a feeling this pulsation is a sign of gratitude for your no.

BOOM. My mind erupted. Of course. Of course! My pussy had gone offline because I belligerently let her be entered without her consent, without her true yes. And hiring Lin to enter her no matter how lovingly was not the answer. 

Saying NO for her was the answer. Proving that I had learnt her boundaries and I would uphold them was the answer. I was crying again but this time they were tears of JOY.

Learning the language of my Pussy has been a long, challenging and beautiful journey. Along that journey Pussy asked me if I would teach other womxn to communicate with their pussys just I had learnt. And I said yes.

Whatever your relationship with your Pussy I hope this story has landed right where it needed too.
If you want to hear me sharing about it live I’ll be on IGTV at 8pm AEST tonight – I would love to have you there with me.

Love Chloe Adriana

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How to Plant a Fairy

Since I was a little girl, I’ve been captivated by fairies. I’d imagine them sheltering in majestic trees, invisible to the human eye. They would glide between the leaves, whispering secrets to the birds and making cosy beds among the branches, forever safe, protected, and held by the grounded tree. I was so captivated that at times I believed I was a fairy; that I could fly up high among the butterflies, the clouds, the sky.


Zimbabwia and I wait outside our campsite in Lagos, a southerly, Atlantic hugging town in Portugal. I knew that we’d made the right choice to come here, that this would be the destination where I would finally have some answers, some direction and some guidance.

Any minute now, Mayatitta, the mysterious witchy woman from Lisbon will come to collect me. I’ve booked a personal retreat with her to attend to my heart healing. My stomach does backflips, my mind monkeying into an array of freaky scenarios. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know this woman, and yet I do know I trust her.

My worries melt away when she arrives and greets us with a longgg hug; a hug that confirms, I’ve made the right decision, and everything is going to be fine. She then turns to Zimbabawia and reassures her: She’s in safe hands. A wave of guilt washes over me; I hadn’t even considered that this would also be a worrisome time for Zimbabwia. I squeeze her hand in parting and then we leave.

We head to find a quiet, shaded spot in a park behind the medieval town walls. Nearby you can hear the cold Atlantic Ocean churning. Mayatitta asks me to find a space and write down my intention for the day — what I want to gain from this healing session — while she prepares.

Plonking myself on the grass, I stare at the blank paper. What do I want? I let my pen tell me:

To understand my powers and my purpose
To unite my inner and outer world
To heal my heart

Satisfied with what I have written, I return to Mayatitta and find the space transformed. Rugs, crystals, oils, and some burning things that I do not recognise but later learn are sweet, earthy palo santo and herbaceous sage. She managed to create a ritual space in a public park, in Lagos. Some seriously witchy shit.

We sit opposite one another. Following Mayatitta’s lead, I take her hands and close my eyes. She invites spirits to be with us on this journey. Releasing my hands, she asks me to place my intention at the ‘altar’ — I quickly decipher that the altar is the holy looking space with candles and crystals. I am in total surrender to this experience.

Mayatitta looks fully into my eyes and asks me to share what has brought me here.

Taking a deep inhale, I summarise my tales of self-destruction with, of self-abandonment, and my addiction to love. I’m trapped in a loop, and my heart breaks every time I go for another round.

Thanking me for my sharing, Mayatitta begins to explain what chakras are and what happens when they are blocked. I frantically take notes with more enthusiasm than I ever did in any university class — Why has no one told me this?

After an hour of intellectual learning, we move into the massage, however, before beginning, Mayatitta has an offer – ganja.

You expressed that ganja was a powerful tool for you to reach the 5th dimension. I wondered if you wanted to have a small bit now, with the intention for it to heal and guide you in this process.

The proposal stumps me, I had only just vowed to my friends that I would never smoke again, but this is a healer, and if anyone surely I am safe with her.

So I do it — just two tiny puffs.

My body becomes heavy, and I lie down. Mayatitta begins to work her magic, and within moments, my back drips in fragrant, silky oils. Mayatita’s hands connect with my back, and together we create a bond. Her hands, my body, our breath, the scents and the thrum of the psytrance create pure alchemy.

And then I sense a familiar change from deep within. My rationalising brain is saying stop but reason has no power where I am going. I drift deeper into relaxation and feel myself slipping. Mayatitta’s rhythm changes and I jolt back into reality, willing myself to stay here. But the force is too great. I’ve stepped over the edge. Looking down at what should be solid ground, I see the endless void of the fifth dimension. No longer am I a body, no longer is there time, gravity; I am powerless. FUCK, I don’t want to go here again!

But it’s too late — Even as I shout ‘NO!’ I’m falling in.

I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re here, you’re here on earth, in Lagos, in Portugal with me, open your eyes. I open my eyes. In disbelief I find myself 50 metres away from our ritual space, and a sudden flashback shows my body sprinting away in terror.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, Mayatitta leads me back to the rug, lays me down gently, and requests permission to help me re-ground with reiki. I give my surrendered consent.

She places cool, heavy crystals from the altar onto my body — one on each chakra. My eyes are closed, yet I know she has begun the reiki; I can feel her energy in me. If I were to look down, I know I would see her hands hovering above my base chakra — like a liquid, radiant heat transmitting from her hands into my whole genitalia. I visualise my internal organs glowing red. How the fuck is she doing this?

Her hands glide one by one to concentrate on each chakra; with each I feel the sensation of radiating heat unlocking hidden volts from deep within. Once unlocked the stagnant wastelands of energy leave my body and I grow lighter and lighter.

Her hands reach my heart. My breath quickens as the radiant heat intensifies, burning like the sun is deep inside the centre of my chest – painful and inescapable. Mayatitta’s chanting wills me to surrender to this experience— I cry out as a force suctions me forward and my entire chest rips off the ground. My back is arched, my hands clenched like claws, my mouth agape, like a scene from the exorcism.

I thump to the ground, and Mayatitta, unwavering, continues to chant her way through the last of the higher chakras, like a true witch. I’m distantly aware of the more subtle heat that passes through my throat, my third eye, and up to my crown and whether through exhaustion or magic, I fall into a deep sleep.

Dribbling, I awake. Am I still in the park? Whose lap is this? It’s Mayatitta’s!
Hey my love, how are you? Woah, that was some serious shit you’ve been carrying.

Urging me to stay lying down, she nourishes my body with food and water. Even for Mayatitta, it was rare to witness such an intense opening.

She explains how enormously porous I am to external energies, how I open the gates for everyone, and anything to come inside and use my body.

And then some words I will never forget:

You cannot do this. You need to learn how to be grounded, to master your emotions. You chose to be here on this earth, so you need to learn how to root down, like a tree.

And so I learned that whilst I’d been admiring the fairies for so long, true elevation had always lied within the tree.


Artwork by my absolute favourite prayerpiece drawer merakilabbe

My deep and humbled gratitude to Mayatitta Devi — if you are ever in Portugal find her

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Is it Time for Heart Healing?

In the days that follow the Another Visit to the Stars event, I am humiliated, vulnerable, and afraid of what happens next. So, like many vulnerable times before, I decide that a man and his cock will surely penetrate away my need to face reality.

The man I find happens to look like Thor — dribble — and he does indeed hammer me for three days, though on the fourth night, while dancing in a dingy Portuguese nightclub he casually asks ‘Chloe you do you mind if I hook up with another chick?’

I am devastated, well that’s an understatement — I run out of the nightclub and wail in the streets of Lisbon screaming
‘WHYYY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO MEEEEEE?’

With a face of horror, Thor finds me the corner, requesting access to me as my friends guard me. He kneels down to mournfully explain that he had assumed I was a liberal, polyamerous being, and that he’d genuinely thought I would be happy with him kissing another woman.

The assumption strikes me…of course he believes this falsity. I portray myself to BE that woman. I don’t dare to show the soft, broken, vulnerable, and lonely side of me who so longs to be loved — who would hook up with her?

The next morning I awake with a hardening in my stomach and words from a dream whispering — Your heart chakra is blocked. Determined to make change, I intuitively google – Heart Chakra. I’ve been doing yoga for a long time and always hear about these chakras but it wasn’t until recently I learnt that they can become blocked. My google search leads me to a FB group; Portugal Conscious Community.
Without thinking twice, I post:

I need help…I’m writing here because I don’t know what else to do. I think my heart chakra is blocked, I am trapped in a loop of getting hurt by men over and over again. I don’t know how to stop it? I don’t know how to help myself? Please?

I press post, and leave the house alone, again letting intuition walk my legs up the steep, cobbled streets until the place: a hairdressers. Walking out I feel 50% better with my shimmering, revibratised red hair. Continuing my destiny lead walk, I round the corner and spot a tattoo studio. Why not? An hour later, I leave with my membership to the Self Love Club.

A long time ago, my friend and I discussed that some people have to get cut down before they learn to get up again. She and I however, need to get cut down, spit on, trampled by elephants, and pissed on by an alley cat before we realise we need to GET UP.

This was my moment.

I was stinking of alley-cat-piss and I was ready to take a fuckin shower. My hair and my tattoo, as cliche as it may sound, filled me with a deep knowing that a time for CHANGE had arrived.

When I returned to my surprised friends and my iPad, I saw that a woman from Lagos had messaged me saying that she’d seen my call for help on FB. She was a healer and held personalised one-day retreats to work on blockages such as my heart chakra. It was too good to be true. I scrolled to her her pricing and the traveller in me gave a cough cough,
Hey gal, I know you wanna make a change but you just spent a lot of money on your visual transformation. Now you wanna travel all the way to Lagos and spend 150 euros as well? I don’t think so.

So, I pushed the brakes on change.


After the rest of the crew had departed Zimbabwia, North Star and I took ourselves to a calm hostel with a pool. There, we simply took much needed recovery time. I spent a lot of time on my own feeling there was an unreachable rift between Zimbabwia and I. Finally one night the girls confessed how they were both still suffering from the Another Visit to the Stars experience. They needed time, but they wanted to make sure that I was okay?

It was horrible. Like something from the movies where you’re the unstable friend everyone has their eye on, waiting for shit to go down. After some days of rest, an event came up in Lisbon with a DJ we all knew and liked. Maybe some good old dancing will shake off this discomfort, we thought, and bought tickets.

Dressed up, I feel like my normal self again, until Zimbabwia says,
You’re not going to take anything today are you?
It is a completely understandable question on her end; she’s just seen me in a state that even I don’t remember. She spent hours bringing me back to reality and she doesn’t want to do it again.

Regardless of the ocean of emotions the question has triggered inside me I tell her
I’ll be fine. I slap on a cute outfit and away we go.

Back once more in a humming techno crowd I just can’t get into the vibe. Taking a break from the dancefloor I bump into a Melbourne sister — Star Sister — she immediately senses that I am emotional and asks if I want to sit down. I hardly know this girl yet suddenly I am telling her all about my recent, fucked up, experiences of turning into a star, becoming the whole universe and believing that most likely I am going insane.

Hey, she says beaming, You are not crazy! You are having an awakening, you are a star, we all are. All human beings are made of stardust. I know because I’ve had the same experience, I’ve experienced what it feels like to be the infinite nothingness. We are all one and you are completely extraordinary.

Her words are like a river of angels singing into my ears, this cannot be true. Tears stream down my face as she reaches over to pull me in. For the first time in weeks, I feel safe, seen, and sane.

As Star Sister holds me, I sense someone coming towards us. Becoming self-aware of my dance floor crying, I release the embrace and find a woman standing over us,
I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Chloe?

Yes? I stammer. I have no recollection of this curly haired, witchy-looking Portuguese woman. I’m Mayatitta, I wrote to you on Facebook about having a healing, I live in Lagos but this morning I woke up and felt a call to come to this event.

Star Sister grabs me by the shoulders laughing, Do you see now?! This is no coincidence you are not crazy, you are magical!

The tears are erupting now, Mayatitta holds me and gives me an ointment from her bag — This is a heart chakra oil that I always carry with me, take it. All three of us are embracing and I’m sobbing when North Star and Zimbabwaia come over to see what the hell is happening.

While I explain the days ‘coincidence’ meetings their pent up stress, fear and trauma turns to disbelief, then disbelief gives way to belief. Belief that every fucked up thing that has happened, just might be true.

I turn to Mayatitta. What are you doing tomorrow? I think it’s time for heart healing.


Thank you to my friends for always believing in me, even when it’s been pretty fucking scary.

Photo by @abundantlilly

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Another Visit to the Stars

It was hard for me to write this tale.

Though it was more than one year ago, it still feels so fresh, so scary. I can feel my chest constricting as I revisit the memories. But writing is my form of
reflection, and reflection enables my growth. So here I go…


Boom week is over and yet instead of having a much needed week off, Zimbabawia, North Star and I are heading to the coast of Portugal.

It’s a feat to organise a group holiday this cosmopolitan: friends from Australia, Afrikaburn, Finland, and two new girls are all rolling into our Airbnb. This will no doubt be another week of madness.

We are a sea of energetic accents sitting upon the balcony and by the time the sun is setting a party is brewing. Every nook and cranny of the enormous house is beginning to transform into a melting pot of euphoria. Zimbabwia is face-painting tessellations in the kitchen, strangers are puffing giant joints on the balcony, tanned Aussies are doing lines on bathroom surfaces.

Danny Dishes, our personal DJ, sets up UEBooms in the living room and his deep-dirty beats intensifies the sticky heat on the dancefloor. The floor is littered with clothing and sweaty bodies gyrate with abandon.

I speculate that I may not be in for the best Airbnb rating but, Oh well. This is a once in a lifetime reunion — nothing could ruin this moment.

Or so I thought.

Having partied all night, the first morning light blemishes the black sky. We stumble our way to the balcony for one last group gathering before winding down and going to bed. Someone rolls a joint that gets passed around the circle. I’m exhausted but wired and happily take two tokes to help calm my chemical drenched brain — but before I can even pass the blunt to North Star, I am gone.

If you’ve read It’s Burn Time Baby then you will be familiar with the split in this tale. What I experience in my mind, and what is experienced on solid earth.

Suddenly, I am being pulled back into the fifth dimension and sitting in the front row of a live theatre performance of my past. In the opening scene, I’m a child running through the vibrant green fields of Northern Ireland, where I grew up. Scene two, I’m on a plane leaving my family behind. I start to cry and guardian angels whisper to me: ‘We’re doing this again because you didn’t quite understand our last message. You’re not from the stars, you are a star on earth.’

‘I don’t understand!’ I wail. So they show me.

I’m suspended in nothingness and I feel with absolute clarity that I’m no longer a body, but instead, I’m a million particles. I’m every cell of the universe, of air, of water, of sound, of energy. I am music — I am space — I am infinite.

Then solid earth pulls me back and in shock I realise I am not suspended in nothingness, I am in Portugal with my friends, and then the panic sets in: What is my human body is doing?

I open my eyes and I’m in the living room. How did I get in the living room? Familiar faces are close by. North Star is sobbing with a look of terror in her eyes, Zimbabwia whispers soothingly, ‘Shhh you’re here, you’re in Portugal. We’ve got you.’ Nameless faces stand back too scared to help, too terrified to look away.

I am humiliated. My instinct tells me to escape. I begin running towards the stairs but feel my feet lift off the ground, my body now cradled by Bear, a loving friend. But before he can soothe me, I am sucked back into the fifth dimension once again.

I cry out to my guardian angels: ‘Why?! Why are you doing this to me? I don’t want it!’

‘Now that all your friends see you this way you won’t be able to pretend anymore. We’re sorry it had to be this way, but we‘re helping you get back on your path.’

‘Doing what!?’ It’s North Star’s voice. ‘Hunny we’re not doing anything! We want to help you. How can we help you?!’

I’m back on earth again, and to my horror realise that this conversation is taking place aloud in both worlds. I am tourmented by how fucking insane I look… am?

In a desperate plea for dignity, I demand to be taken to my room. Zimbabwia and North Star escort me and for the next three hours they do their best to support me with meditative chanting while I thrash in-between two worlds.

I see visions of my past, my future. I beg the angels to let me go back to solid earth. I feel that only once they believe I’ve received ‘the message’ do they begin to relinquish their grip on me.

The sound of Zimbabawia chanting becomes more and more audible, and real, and I know I’ll stay back in their company this time. With a glimmer of hope, I seize my last change and beg: ‘Will you please let all of this have been a dream? Turn back time, whatever you have to do — I promise I won’t forget my lesson.’

‘Okay, we will,’ they whisper. However something in their tone sounds like an empty promise. But for my exhausted mind and body it is enough to finally surrender me to Zimbabwias healing. She hovers above me, speaking grounding words and smearing me with healing aromas.

When I wake up, this will all have been a dream…