🎙️Why the Divine Feminine Gives Me the Ick (But I Still Want What She's Selling)

You’ve whispered the affirmations. You’ve tried the womb meditations. You’ve side-eyed the white linen goddess circles while wondering, “Why does this feel…off?”

Same.

In this episode, I pull the glittery veil off the modern “Divine Feminine” movement — not to shame the longing underneath it, but to finally name what’s felt itchy, confusing, and quietly performative for so many of us.

We’ll dig into:

• Why the version of the Divine Feminine flooding your feed isn’t ancient (spoiler: she’s more Victorian séance than temple priestess)

• The secret history of Spiritualism, Theosophy, and how gendered mysticism became a polished product

• What we’re really aching for beneath the hashtags and rose quartz

• How we can reclaim pleasure, power, and embodiment without playing dress-up for the patriarchy

This isn’t a call-out. It’s a reckoning. A remembrance. A path back to the real thing—the sacred, untamed, body-wired wisdom that no oracle deck can fully hold.

If you’ve ever felt both drawn to and repelled by “feminine embodiment” spaces… this one’s for you.

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Full Transcript Here:

Alright, so…
You know that moment when you start pulling on a little thread, and then suddenly your whole sweater is on the floor?
Yeah. That happened to me.

This episode started because I went on a little quest — a totally casual, not-at-all-obsessive quest — to trace back some of the philosophical and spiritual ideas that so many of us have been living inside.
Ideas about energy. About the Divine Feminine. About cosmic balance, sacred softness, manifestation...
You know — the air we breathe in certain corners of the spiritual community.

And today’s episode? That quest is definitely a personal one.

Because for years, I’ve had this complicated, itchy, restless relationship with the idea of the “Divine Feminine.”
On one hand, it always rubbed me the wrong way — like a scratchy sweater that everyone else seemed to find soft and cozy, and I couldn’t figure out why I felt so uncomfortable in it.
Like... part deep longing, part side-eye, part why does this feel like a cult where everyone’s just very moisturized?

On the outside, I played along.
I lit the candle. I tried the womb meditations.
I sat in the goddess circles with the silk scarves and whispered intentions.

But internally?
I was like… is this it?
Is this really it?

Because what I was being handed felt less like sacred reclamation… and more like a gluten-free, vibes-based snack that someone swore would nourish me — but always left me spiritually hungry an hour later.

And yet...
There was this real, aching part of me that wanted it.
That needed it.
That could feel the genuine call underneath all the language and imagery — like a siren song pulling at something deep in my bones.
Something I couldn’t — and still can’t — ignore.

So for a long time, my strategy was simple: squint, smile, and take what I could get.
Even when the rituals felt off.
Even when womb meditations and flowy goddess circles — and, you know, assigning rose quartz to every life problem — felt more like crumbs than the feast I was really starving for.

I told myself:
Maybe it’s supposed to feel this way.
Maybe I just need to be more receptive.
Maybe this is the best anyone can offer.

So I carried on.
Gathering crumbs.
Ignoring the growing discomfort.
Pretending the hunger wasn’t getting louder.

Until eventually... I couldn’t.

I found myself avoiding anything that mentioned the Divine Feminine.
Not because I didn’t want what it was pointing to —
But because I had become too suspicious that most of what was offered wasn’t nourishment.
It was noise.
Echoes of echoes.
A thousand distorted reflections of something that once was real.

What I’ve been craving all along isn’t an aesthetic.
It isn’t a polarity chart.
It isn’t a perfectly lit photo of a woman in white linen communing with her inner goddess.

What I want — what I think many of us want — is a real return.
A living, breathing, blood-and-sky-and-bone connection to something older, wiser, truer than all this polished noise.

Because deep down...
I think we know we’re surviving on crumbs.

Crumbs of something we can feel was once a feast.
Crumbs of something real, vital, ancient, and holy —
That had clearly been edited down for Instagram and rebranded as an empowerment brand.

Eventually, I tapped out.
Maybe you have too.

I started avoiding anything that even mentioned the words “Divine Feminine.”
Not because I didn’t still want her —
But because I got tired of the noise.
Tired of the soft-focus performance.
Tired of pretending all this “receptive radiance” wasn’t just patriarchy in a crystal crown.

And yet — the ache didn’t go away.
That siren-call yearning?
Still there.

So I decided to go digging.
Not for a new practice.
Not for a better mantra.
But for the truth.

Something that calls us back to ourselves —
Before we were asked to perform sacredness.
Before we were asked to perform anything at all.

And so... hence my quest.
A personal, obsessive, occasionally exasperated quest to figure out:
Where did all of this come from?
What are we actually being sold when we’re told to "embody the Divine Feminine"?
And more importantly — what are we really hungry for?

Spoiler:
I found a lot of very weird history.
I found Victorian séances.
I found colonialism dressed up as spirituality.
I found capitalism in a very good wig.

But underneath all that?
I also found something worth fighting for.

So today, we’re going to talk about it.
We’re going to pull the thread — not to destroy our longing — but to finally, finally respect it enough to stop settling for crumbs.

Because here’s the thing:
Finding out the truth about your favorite myths doesn’t ruin the magic.
It just means you finally get to sit at the real banquet table —
Instead of eating moon-charged Ritz crackers in a linen dress.

The version of the “Divine Feminine” that dominates Instagram, retreats, and oracle decks?

She isn’t ancient.

She was born in the 19th century.
In the drawing rooms of white spiritualists who were trying to reconcile Christianity with their discomfort about sex and women’s power.

You’ve seen her.
Draped in white linen.
Holding a moonstone.
Whispering about surrender and softness.
She floats through your Instagram feed.
She’s stamped on your oracle decks.
She shows up at retreats, swaying her hips in slow circles, inviting you to "reclaim" your femininity.

But what if she’s not a sacred return —
What if she’s a carefully constructed mirage?

What if she was invented — yes, invented — out of a deep historical wound,
Shaped not by ancient goddess worship,
But by the constraints of Christianity, colonialism, capitalism —
And the desperate spiritual longings of women who had no true power… yet?

To understand how we got from séance to silk-scarf sisterhood, we have to go back.

19th century.
A time when women’s voices, bodies, and ambitions were violently restricted by law, church, and culture.
Women were denied education. Denied political voice. Denied bodily autonomy.

But longing for power doesn’t disappear.
It adapts.

Enter: Spiritualism.

In the 1840s, a religious movement explodes across America and Britain.
Spiritualism claims the living can communicate with the dead —
And women, uniquely, are the channels.

Suddenly, women are speaking in public —
But only if they say it’s not them speaking.
It’s the spirits.
The guides.
The higher powers.

They could feel.
But not lead.
They could channel.
But not command.

This was the beginning of a now-familiar equation:
Spiritual woman = passive, intuitive, emotionally sensitive.

But it wasn’t liberation.
It was a spiritual loophole.

It taught women that power could only be accessed when they surrendered their agency.
That their worthiness was tied to being a vessel, not a force.

It gave them power — but only if they claimed it wasn’t theirs.

So began the pattern:
Women’s power cloaked in receptivity.
Framed as “open,” “intuitive,” “emotional.”
Not directive.
Not loud.
Not authoritative.

This wasn’t sacred.
It was survival.

And we’re still trapped in it.

Next came Theosophy —
The great-grandmother of today’s New Age spirituality.

What is Theosophy?
It’s a spiritual movement from the late 1800s.
Think: occultism, mysticism, and a very white fascination with Eastern religion.

Theosophy taught that all religions share a hidden root.
That souls evolve.
That karma, reincarnation, cosmic cycles — all real.
That Ascended Masters guide humanity’s spiritual evolution from mysterious places like Tibet.

It sounds beautiful.
But here’s the catch.

It was built during a cultural vacuum —
When Christianity was crumbling and science felt soulless.
So Theosophy said: what if we mix the mystery of the East with the method of the West?

To Victorian women hungry for meaning, it was electrifying.

But it wasn’t grounded in deep cultural respect.
It was grounded in exoticism.
Colonial imagination.

Terms like “chakra,” “karma,” “astral body,” “divine feminine” were cherry-picked and rebranded —
To suit Western palates.

And behind it all was Helena Blavatsky —
Russian mystic. Smoker. Swearer. Show-woman.
And deeply influential.

Blavatsky and others wrote about cosmic dualities:
Divine masculine. Divine feminine.
Two opposing principles — coded as male = solar, logic, action.
Female = lunar, emotional, receptive.

Sound familiar?

This wasn’t sacred balance.
It was gender essentialism in a silk robe.

Polarity teachings didn’t free women.
They spiritualized their confinement.

Now you might be thinking:
If all this is true, why didn’t I know?

Good question.

Here’s why it stayed hidden:

1. It was rebranded.
Over time, Theosophy faded —
But its ideas were passed down.
Into Anthroposophy. Into New Thought. Into Law of Attraction.
Into modern yoga, energy healing, and Instagram spirituality.

But the names changed.
The context disappeared.

You didn’t get Theosophy.
You got “Divine Feminine Magnetism.”
“Embodiment coaching.”
“Energetic upgrades.”
Same ideas. New packaging.

2. It was whitewashed.
Theosophy borrowed from Hinduism and Buddhism —
Then stripped them of nuance and rewrote them in colonial English.

And modern spirituality rarely unpacks that history.
Because it’s messy. Complicated. Politically inconvenient.
So instead, it hides behind vague phrases:
“Ancient wisdom.” “Eastern traditions.” “From a lineage I was initiated into.”

3. It doesn’t feel theosophical anymore.
The word “Theosophy” sounds dusty.
But the teachings? They got glam.
You’re not being sold history.
You’re being sold aesthetics.

4. There’s no incentive to trace the lineage.
Many current spiritual teachers don’t know they’re repeating Theosophy.
They learned it from someone who learned it from someone.
No footnotes. No citations. Just vibes.

And no one wants to stop and ask:
Are these teachings appropriated?
Do they reinforce outdated gender roles?
Are we healing… or just performing?

Because that might ruin the vibe.

Let’s jump ahead.

1970s.
Second-wave feminism is rising.
Feminist thinkers like Starhawk, Carol P. Christ, Merlin Stone start reclaiming the Goddess.

And this was vital.
It was necessary.
It was real.

They said: Look — there were sacred feminine cultures before patriarchy. There was a time when bleeding, birthing, wild women were holy.

But just as the Goddess was being remembered…
Capitalism caught up.

And she got rebranded.
Trimmed. Softened.
Not the blood-soaked, rage-filled, chaos-dancing Goddess of myth —
But a version you could sell.

Now she’s in skincare ads.
In rose quartz.
In white lace.
In $3,000 retreats.

She became a brand.

You could be wild — but only if you looked good doing it.
You could be angry — but only if it was radiant.
You could be powerful — but only if it was soft.

The Goddess became a performance.
A costume.
A curated aesthetic of empowerment that asks you to do absolutely nothing threatening to power structures.

And so here we are.

Taught that reclaiming our power means becoming more palatably feminine.

That our deepest rebellion is to be magnetic.
Receptive.
Fertile.
Glowing.
Surrendered.
Luscious.

Not threatening.
Not chaotic.
Not wild in ways that destroy and remake worlds.

But here’s the litmus test:

If your Divine Feminine can’t be hairy, old, queer, infertile, asexual, raging, godless, loud, or just plain bored—

Then she’s not divine.
She’s domesticated.

She’s a goddess built for the market.
Not the cosmos.

The version of the Divine Feminine we’re sold today?

She’s rooted in Victorian etiquette.
In Theosophical gender myths.
In New Age consumerism.
And neoliberal capitalism’s hunger to monetize your longing.

If your feminine can’t bleed in public, scream in a boardroom, masturbate in grief, speak in profanity, age, go barren, or refuse to mother anything at all?

She’s not divine.

She’s digestible.

And I don’t want to be digested.

Let me say this clearly:

The obsession with the Divine Feminine?
It’s not a rebellion against patriarchy.

It’s proof that patriarchy worked.

Because if the only way you know how to reclaim yourself is through the opposite of masculinity, you’re still playing by the rules.

Real power isn’t gendered.

Real healing isn’t about “balancing your masculine and feminine energies.”

It’s about getting off the stage altogether.

It’s letting your body lead you —
Through grief. Through rage. Through orgasm. Through stillness.
Through every contradiction.
Without trying to squeeze it into an archetype — even a sacred one.

The ancient feminine didn’t exist in polarity.
She existed in complexity.
In contradiction.
In the full, living spiral of being.

So maybe you’re not here to “embody the Divine Feminine.”
Maybe you’re here to dismantle every story that told you power had to look like anything at all.

Let’s be honest.

When we talk about the Divine Feminine, we’re not just talking about an archetype.
We’re talking about a longing.
A longing so deep, so ancient, so carved into our bones it aches.

We are not wrong to want her.

We are not wrong to want softness.
To want safety.
To want to be held by something older, wilder, more trustworthy than capitalism or gender norms.

We are not wrong to want to feel connected —
To our wombs, our erotic pulse, our cycles.
To live in a world where we’re not punished for feeling too much, wanting too much, taking up too much space.

We are trying to remember something real.

And that longing? It’s not petty.
It’s not personal.
It’s ancestral.
It’s collective.

Because there was a time — before patriarchy —
When the world was not split into domination and submission.
When blood wasn’t hidden, but honored.
When sexuality wasn’t moralized, but ritualized.
When the body wasn’t a shame site, but a sacred site.

In Neolithic cultures, we find goddess worship not as idolization —
But as recognition.
Of the female body as portal.
Of the Earth as mirror.
Of life as a cycle, not a ladder.

We’re not trying to go back.
We’re trying to remember.

So here’s the deeper truth:

We are not longing to be more feminine.
We are longing to be more ourselves.

To be undivided.
Unperformed.
Integrated.

To call every exiled part of us home:
The too-much part.
The grieving part.
The sacred-no-saying part.
The rage that says this ends with me.

We are longing to spiral like green things grow — without asking for permission.
To bloom.
To decay.
To rage and rest in rhythm, not hierarchy.

And that’s where The Body Compass Method comes in.

It’s not a map someone else made.
It’s not an aesthetic.
It’s not a branding of your sacredness.

It’s a return.

To the signals your body’s been whispering all along.
To the truth that lives under the performance.
To the sacredness that never needed white linen or moonlight to be real.

The Body Compass teaches you to follow what feels alive —
Not what looks impressive.
To listen to your pleasure, your rage, your no, your desire —
As wisdom.

Not to “embody the feminine.”
But to stop performing sacredness and start being sacred again.

So no — we’re not wrong to want the Divine Feminine.
But maybe what we really want…
Is to finally stop outsourcing our sacredness.

To stop dressing it up.
To stop performing it.

And to start remembering:

The sacred isn’t in the image.
It’s in your instincts.
Your disobedience.
Your refusal to shrink.

That is divine.

[Outro Music Fades In]

If this shook you?
Good.
It’s time to crack the altar —
And build something truer.

I’ll see you next time.