The Morrigan

The Morrigan does not arrive like a blessing.
She arrives like a warning.

She is the sound of wings before a battle,
the shadow that passes over the sun,
the feeling that something in your life
is about to end
whether you are ready or not.

They called her a phantom queen,
a war goddess,
a crow with a taste for the dead.
They told stories about her like she was something to fear.

But I think
she is the moment a woman realises
she cannot live like this anymore.

The Morrigan is not just battlefields and blood.
She is the war inside your chest
when you outgrow a life
that once fit you perfectly.

She is the voice that says
no more.

No more shrinking.
No more swallowing words.
No more staying where you are not loved,
not seen,
not chosen.

In the old stories,
she washes the clothes of those about to die.
A strange image.
A quiet image.
Not war. Not rage.
Just a woman at a river,
wringing out the future.

I think that is what she does for us.

She stands at the edge of who we have been
and who we are becoming,
and she asks only one question:

Are you brave enough
to let your old life die?

Because the Morrigan does not destroy without reason.
She clears battlefields.
She ends false kingdoms.
She tears down the life that is killing you slowly
so you can build one that is yours.

If you hear wings overhead,
do not hide.

It might just be the sound
of your life changing.