Anassa Eneroi

My mother used to call my bedroom, my cave.

To her, it was dark and dreary. A place where I shut myself away from the world and from her prying eyes. To me, it was a place of softness and fantasy where I could rest, fall asleep to the songs of Loreena McKennit, read my books, and hide from the monsters outside the door. Inside that small room, wrapped in blankets with the curtains drawn tight against the sun, I felt something rare and precious.

Safety. My cave was my sanctuary.

Until the day my mother took the door off the hinges.

The first time, I was twelve. I disobeyed her, I can’t remember how, but this was the punishment she chose. The removal of my threshold. The boundary that protected my sanctuary vanished overnight. The cave that had once sheltered me was forced open, leaving me exposed to her presence, her scrutiny, her invasion whenever she wished.

The door would only be returned once I had proven myself worthy of privacy again..

I didn’t know Hecate then—not by name, anyway. But I was drawn to mystery. To magic. To the ancient world. Without the security of my cave at home, I sought other places of refuge and safety, and found it in my locak library. It was small, but it was truly a cave of wonders. I checked out books about Egyptology and ancient civilizations, searching for something I couldn’t quite name. Something that lived just beyond the edge of understanding.

The librarian noticed my hunger for knowledge. I was there at least twice a week, checking out the maximum amount of books allowed, returning for more as I devoured everything I got my hands on. Without being asked, she began curating reading lists for me. Handing me stories and histories and worlds far beyond that tiny town. Memnoch the Devil by Anne Rice, was my first introduction to theology beyond Christianity.

I wish I could remember the librarian’s name.

She changed my life.

My mother was a strange mix of support and suspicion when it came to my curiosity. She was deeply enmeshed in the Christian church, and my fascination with hieroglyphics and ancient religions unsettled her.

And yet, she once brought home an enormous coffee table book called Ancient Civilizations. It must have weighed eight pounds.

I devoured the images printed on thick, glossy paper, delving into whatever secrets I could glean from the descriptions of Babylon, Ancient Sumeria, Egypt, Norway, Rome, Greece, and all the Cletic tribes who built such incredible monuments still standing today. I think my mother still has it.

At age thirteen, I found a stack of paperbacks in the bargain bin and unearthed Nora Roberts’ Three Sisters trilogy. As I inhaled them, I remember not only indentifying with the magic and ritual of witchcraft, of Paganism, I remember thinking how desperately I wanted a coven. Friends who were like me. Who were drawn to the realm of myths and legends.

I confess, I tried some of Nora’s spells, standing outside in the light of the full moon in our small back yard in the dead of night, attempting to move the air.

At the same time, I was working with horses. I’d always been obsessed with them, and at fifteen I got a job mucking out stalls at a small boarding stable, working for a tiny, but indomniable woman who was a powerhouse of authority, softness, and laughter. My favorites were the majestic black Friesians—the same horses that carried heroes into battle in fantasy novels and films. Hello LadyHawk!

Again, my mother was supportive but resistent. She didn’t like it that my grandfather had bought me a horse, didn’t like it that I was taking riding lessons from other women who cared for me in ways she couldn’t understand, but supported my passion for riding, and often refused to drive me the two miles up the road to the stable for work. Her theory was if I truly wanted to be there, I could walk.

And I did.

When I was eighteen, I left my toxic family system for the first time.

Around that time, my greates ally gave me a necklace. A round medallion with a Celtic knot on it. It became my talisman—something I wore every day until the metal left a white spot on my chest where the sun never touched. When a careless roommate lost it, I decided to get it tattooed on my body so I’d never be without it.

I walked into a tattoo shop close to my apartment and said,“I want the symbol of the Triple Goddess. Use this knot as the center moon.”

It came out perfect, exactly as I’d envisioned. The artist—who was very clearly high—freehanded an almost perfect circle. Then he absolutely destroyed the two crescents. But I had my first mark.

At the time, I knew about the Triple Goddess. The Maiden, Mother, and Crone. I’d probably heard Hecate’s name somewhere in my mythology books.

But I didn’t know Her.

Not yet.

Now, years later, I sometimes sit with her and ask what she thinks about my tramp stamp, and I feel the echo of her laughter. Apparently she doesn’t mind that her moons rise from my butt crack. The sun doesn’t shine there, after all. So perhaps it’s fair to say I placed her symbol on the dark side of my moon.

I published my first romance novel in 2016. I didn’t know it yet, but I was still down in the Underworld. Still traveling through the gates of my own becoming.

The Descent

For years I would tell people I was obsessed with Greek mythology as a teenager.

I knew of Hecate.

But I didn’t know Her. Not until my life collapsed 20 years after unknowingly branding myself with Hecate’s mark. After publishing eighteen books under my pseudonym. On the cusp of sucessfully completing my journey to get my daughter to college.

My life had been what I like to refer to as a series of ongoing, relentless Tower Moments. So many times I’d build up my powerful monuments, only to have it all come crashing down right on the cusp of launching a new career or idea. This Tower Moment was an obliteration that destroyed the very foundations of my being.

I remember the moment vividly.

I was sitting in the beautiful office I’d created, in what I believed was my forever home on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It should have been a beautiful day. My daughter had just completed her Daisy Ceremony as she was welcomed to her first year of college. I called my mother to share the moment of joy and celebration as I waited for the student orientations to end and getting my daughter moved into her dorm.

During the conversation, I shared with her my delight in finding two elegant chairs in black and white Buffalo plaid from Pottery Barn at a consignment shop in town. I shared my laughter that I hadn’t thought Buffalo Plaid would ever be my style, but in the farmhouse with it’s gorgeous vaulted ceilings, and glossy white walls, the chairs looked perfect. My joy triggered her most volatile fight response, and she came out swinging, going for maximum verbal damage. The volatile argument that followed would be the start of a chain reaction that led to that beautiful forever home being ripped away from me, along with my dreams for the future, and the horses I had raised from birth.

When the call ended, something inside me broke open.

For the first time in my life, I screamed.

I screamed and screamed until my throat was raw.

My poor, sweet dog was terrified, and I’m honestly surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police.

Eventually, the sound stopped, and all that remained was silence. The quiet peacefulness after the hurricane.

I sat at my desk and stared out the window, and felt something emerge. An energy swelled to fill the space, a presence that moved to stand at my shoulder. I felt a hand—gentle, electric, loving—smooth down my hair. The presence felt feminine, motherly even, but I didn’t know who she was. So I closed my eyes and listened with my body.

I wasn’t afraid.

I was curious.

I remember the overwhelming feeling of comfort. Of safety. Of being held. It felt like the cave of my childhood bedroom—the one that had once protected me.

In my mind’s eye, I saw a woman, hooded and cloaked. Pale skin glowing softly, red lips visible beneath the shadow of the hood.

At first I considered it was Persephone, someone I was familiar with, but the energy felt different.

She didn’t speak, she just stayed, silently acting as the sole witness to the death of the self I no longer was, and the beginning of my next chapter. On the blank pages, two questions formed, ‘What do I do now? Who am I without this?”

Responsibility called,and I had to leave to return to my daughter. I had to put away my grief, and the moment passed. While I could no longer ‘see’ the hooded woman, I could still feel her there in the dark corner of my mind, waiting for me to return.

I didn’t know her, but I wanted to.

What followed over the next few days was a trail of breadcrumbs.

A Google search.
A conversation with my best friend to share my experience.
A podcast episode that appeared… as if by magic.

The podcast was called Big Mama Hecate.

The show itself—The Pocket Coven—became my emotional support podcast during what would become the most difficult year of my life. My descent into the Underworld, with so many little deaths along the way, and now I knew the name of my guide.

Hecate.

The podcast is hosted by two brilliant, hilarious, creative, intelligent witches who describe their work as the space where magic and mental health meet. Slowly, piece by piece, episode by episode, I realized something extraordinary.

Hecate had been with me all along.

She was there when I watched Xena: Warrior Princess at age ten against my mother’s disgusted commands to turn it off. Hecate Damasandra.

She was there in my cave of a bedroom, nurturing me while I hid from monsters outside the door. Hecate Panthropos.

She was there in the glow of my flashlight as I read my translation of The Book of the Dead under my blankets when the door to my cave was missing. Hecate Lampadios.

She was there while I rode my horse bareback through orange orchards in flip-flops. Hecate Eurippa.

She was there each time the towers of my life collapsed, and I had to rebuild from rubble. Hecate Aregos.

I learned that Hecate has as many names, as many Epithets as there are stars in the sky, because across all pantheons, you’ll find her represtented in some form or other. When I followed strange correspondences and invisible signs toward the next chapter with curiosity and the desire to return to the truest, most authentic parts of myself, Hecate Enodia, She Who Guides the Way, was there.

After a year of trying to do my own shadow work, trying to handle everything myself because that’s just what I did, what I’d always done, I realized there was only so much work I could do by myself. I needed help from someone who could act as a mirror and a lantern, reflecting and shining light on my most vulnerable, broken pieces with compassion. Someone to walk with me while I gained deeper understanding of what the descent meant for me. Someone who could help guide me through the twists and turns in the maze of my mind, to find the exit back to the world above.

It just so happened the opportunity for counseling appeared, and I’ve never written an email so fast in my LIFE.

On September 7th, 2024, I booked a consultation with a licensed therapist who was also a witch. A mother. Someone who understood that my magic and my mental health were intertwined. I could speak openly about the conversation I had with Demeter while soaking in my bestie’s bathtub without fear of being pathologized. My very own earthly manifestation of Hecate Enodia.

That space, that compassionate witness who challenged me with laughter and kindness, with somatic embodiment, knowledge, acceptance, support, sacred space for all the new chapters in my Ascent, changed my life.

During one session, she said something that stuck with me. “Have you ever thought about being a life coach?”

At first, I felt immediate resistance. As a native born Cali girl, Life Coaching to me has been a buzzword attached (with deepest respect) to every vegan, tree-hugging hippie from California. It’s something I didn’t consider to be a legitimate job or vocation, because of my belief systems rooted in patriarchy. But I was curious about my resistance and the beliefs wrapped around that resistance. That curiosity led me to deathwork, and I felt MUCH more comfortable in this shadowy realm.

I started Death Doula training, realizing much of what I was learning didn’t quite fit the archetype of ME that I was building, but it was all important infrastructure. This led to Hypnotherapy certification. To a Spiritual Counseling and Coaching certification. To the understanding that my desire to be of service could be focused on guiding people through the rubble of their own tower moments, mythically.

The pattern became clear.

The correspondences were abundant.

Anassa Eneroi

“The raging voice of Anassa Eneroi shrieks at those who cause pain. But it also beckons the wounded to her protective horde. Her voice gives rise to great discomfort, shaking us from our living death. This call of hers vibrates us to the core, leading us to come to life and dance our way down her road toward her great caulrdon of rebirth that awaits beside her throne of bones. We live in an age when the goddess is emerging from her cave, bringing with her the mysteries of death. That life is a great, eternal wheel that marks the perpetual cycles of gestation, birth, decline, death, and rebirth.”

~Cyndi Brannen: Entering Hekate’s Cave

Deathwork is not the work of physical death.

It is the many smaller deaths we experience during life.

The death of a career.
The death of a relationship.
The death of a dream.
The death of the person we thought we were supposed to be.

Those moments when everything we built collapses around us.

What remains afterward is grief.

And possibility.

The empty space where something new might eventually grow.

That space—the darkness between endings and beginnings—is where I do my best work.

It’s the threshold.

The liminal world between stories.

The cave.