I’m still in it a little bit with this one…

There are a few threads I’ve been sitting with, generally around relationships, self-abandonment, and the descent we’re often forced into when something in our lives no longer fits.

It all started to connect when I began thinking about the death and resurrection journey in mythology… Inanna, Perseph…

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I’ve been sitting with what was confirmed for me…

Exploring the impact of social conditioning on our emotional expression and soul exploration — it’s not that we don’t feel deeply, it’s that being seen in that truth is still the edge, and the bravery it takes to walk it.

There was something really powerful in what unfolded, I could have continued the conversation for hours.

I’ve shared a voice note with some reflections from the last 24 hours, and I’ve written out the prompts we moved through below, in case you want to sit with them in your own time.

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I am always in observation mode.

As a neurospicy girly, my pattern recognition is fuego.

And do you know what I keep noticing? Women deemed “wild” are stylish af.

Let’s take a look at films — an art form that subtly sets collective archetypal tone.

The diva/difficult woman/villain are always incredibly well-dressed.

Remember, she’s the woman you’re not supposed to like very much, and yet, she is dressed with a stylish ferocity that is undeniable.

Intentional. Precise. Unignorable.

Her style is never accidental because her style is part of how her “badness” is communicated.

Albeit subtle, the message is clear: a woman who is too self-possessed, too sure of herself, too expressed - is dangerous.

When a woman dresses well, with intention, for herself - it signifies assurance. Someone unbothered about the space they take up.

That’s an internal permission that most women haven’t given themselves.

For centuries women have been told how to dress.

What’s appropriate and what’s not for a “lady”, is consistently reinforced on women.

So when a woman stops asking - “is this too much” - and starts dressing purely for her instinctual nature, obviously she stands out.

Not because she’s trying to be seen, but because she has no desire to suppress - and why on earth should she?

What even is “Wild?”

What I define a wild woman to be, is a woman who chooses to live outside of society’s margins.

An Outlier.

She trusts her instincts.

She dresses from feeling, not approval and has no desire to visually shrink.

We’ve been taught that thinking too highly of yourself is a flaw. That self-possession is arrogance and that confidence should be tempered.

And yet, the freedom you feel when you release yourself from these constraints and the restrictions of your own mind, is nothing short of intoxicating.

It touches every expression of your identity.

So when we link this to style; it’s the moment you stop dressing for other people and dress to satisfy your own joy.

It’s your refusal to be anything else other than what’s speaking in your soul.

When you stop suppressing yourself internally… it shows up externally.

You don’t become stylish because you learnt trends. You become stylish because you stopped censoring yourself.

The part people don’t talk about

You don’t, and arguably, can’t, dress freely until you’ve made your “unacceptable” parts safe.

The parts of you that feel:

too sexual

too bold

too dark

too self-assured

When you’re still negotiating with those parts of yourself or trying to manage how you are perceived…that edit shows up in your wardrobe.

The shift

The shift happens when you start exploring these edges.

When you stop judging you, and allow what’s in you to exist - without suppression.

That’s when your divine darkness starts to unlock something deeper — your real, unfiltered self. Your radical authenticity.

Let’s keep it real here -

Women are still shamed for what they wear.

Still expected to conform to youth-obsessed standards that reward smallness and innocence.

So styling and genuine self-expression, becomes a rebellious act of self-sovereignty.

Style becomes the result

A woman who is unconcerned of any dress code, or whether she’s “over-dressed”, screams self - assurance.

True style is in the deep learning of You - what fabrics make you feel good, how certain colours make you feel, actively expressing how you want to feel on any particular day.

It’s reflecting your current internal world.

*This is also why I’ve never fully subscribed to the idea of having just one “aesthetic” - as women we fluctuate with our hormones so much. One day I might want to be an unashamed vampy sex siren, another, a colourful psychedelic hippy.

And when I’m on my moon? I want to be wrapped in darkness — gothic, inward, swathed in black.

When you’re not editing yourself… your style is allowed to move with you.

Over the years — first as a stylist, now as someone who works with women through periods of transformation and identity death — I’ve seen it time and time again: the work starts inside.

When there’s nothing left in you that you’re trying to hide - your personal style becomes the result.

When you’ve done the inner work and ready to lay all your cards out in your self-expression, your wardrobe becomes an extension of your internal freedom.

Wild women don’t dress better because they have better taste. They dress better because they no longer feel the need to edit themselves.

And this is exactly the work most people avoid.

We’ve been taught that for a woman to care about her appearance is either egotistical or solely for the male gaze.

But a different truth lies beneath it all.

It lies in the suppressed emotions, in the unrealised desires.

It actually has very little to do with aesthetics - and everything to do with the truth of who you are.

I’m opening a small, online witnessing space next week.

UNEDITED: A witnessing space

A space to stop performing, stop managing, and just be.

Somewhere you can bring what lies beneath your full expression — anger, grief, numbness, raw truth — without needing to edit it.

We’ll open the container together, move through some guided prompts, and close it intentionally, so it feels safe,

not heavy or chaotic.

🖤 Tuesday 7th April

🖤 Live, online

It’s $15 (or included if you’re in Dark Room).

If you’ve been feeling the edge of any of this -

this is the space you meet it.

DM me for the link or upgrade below.

With love and magic,

Sim xxx

Women don’t struggle to feel rage.

It’s always there. Quietly seething.

In the words you swallow. In the way you contort your energy for others’ comfort.

In the persistent self-abandonment.

The struggle is being seen in it. That’s a very different threshold.

What does it mean to really let it out?

What Pandora’s box might open if you stop holding it all together?

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So, to cut to the chase - my (personally much anticipated) Rage Rave, didn’t go ahead.

And yet?

It had the most interest an event of mine has ever had.

It touched nervous systems globally as women reached out wanting to come — until they realised they were in the wrong country.

Others offered to share it, to support it. Looking for a way to be a part of it.

The poster was being sent to friends in private chats like an illicit prohibition leaflet. The whatsapp group filled up and then - nada.

The day came and went, and no one stepped into the fire.

And at the same time?

I’m seeing rage everywhere. Rising to the surface.

On Instagram. In conversations. In the quiet ways women are starting to admit what they feel.

Women are reclaiming it. Agreeing with it.

So where’s the gap?

It’s not the emotion that’s the problem.

As women, we all carry it. We all have the stories, moments, memories where people-pleasing took precedence over truth.

It’s the visibility of it.

Being seen angry.

Being witnessed in your truth.

Letting something move through you without controlling how it’s perceived?

That’s the edge.

And for many women - that’s the unsafe part.

As a Black woman, where being seen angry is heavily policed. I get it.

I’ve spent my life managing my rage and emotions, figuring out my regulation so as not to simply explode. Policing myself to make others feel less threatened.

It has been suggested that I soften my wording, dilute my message, sweeten the medicine. The stubborn part of me doesn’t want to.

I like my medicine a little gritty. A tad bitter, even.

I know that’s not for everyone, and I respect that. Kind of.

So the instinct becomes:

Contain.

Edit.

Soften.

Stay palatable.

Which means the rage never actually moves.

It just… lives inside you. Poisoning you from the inside. Turning into cysts, fibroids, chronic illness. Dis-ease in the body.

So no — Rage Rave didn’t “fail”. It simply revealed something.

That before we can fully express…

We need to feel safe being seen.

So before I host the next Rage Rave, I’m opening something smaller.

A private Dark Room gathering.

A witnessing space, with no performance or pressure to be intense.

No expectation to “rage”.

You don’t even have to know what you’re feeling.

Just a room where you can safely bring what’s in you - anger, grief, numbness, truth - and not edit it.

Where expressing and being seen becomes the practice.

This isn’t a space to spiral or emotionally dump without awareness.

It’s a space to be with what’s real — consciously.

It’s where we get to speak from the body, not perform from the mind.

To be witnessed without needing to be fixed, rescued, or managed.

There will be a clear opening and closing to the space.

You’ll be held, but you’ll also be responsible for what you bring into the room.

That’s what makes it safe.

Because that’s the part I realised is missing; not the emotion, but the safety in not editing yourself.

This will be an intimate space, and I’ll be opening a limited number of spots to begin with.

Dark Room members will have first access.

The first gathering will be:

🖤 Tuesday 7th April

🖤 8pm EST

$15 or included inside The Dark Room

If you want to be in the room, message me and I’ll send you the details.

With love and magic,

Sim 🖤

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The cool girl is the woman who manages everyone else’s comfort at the expense of her own truth.

When I think of the cool girl, I think of Gone Girl.

Amy Dunne spends years perfecting “Cool Girl” — the woman who loves what men love, who doesn’t nag, who eats burgers without gaining weight, who never needs too much, who is perpetually chill.

And then - the performance collapses.

Or rather, detonates.

That is what happens when you build an identity on suppression.

Eventually, the body demands revenge. And that is either at the expense of you or others.

Despite surface appearances, the Cool Girl, isn’t calm. She’s merely contained. She keeps all her true desires and feelings bottled up inside for - the show must go on!

She doesn’t lack emotion, she merely edits it. Redirects it inwards.

But what are the consequences of performing “unbothered or low maintenance”? Of swallowing irritation so you can remain desirable or dimming enthusiasm so you don’t seem “too much”?

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I very clearly show my enthusiasm for all things. Publicly, instinctively and without scanning the room first.

It has been remarked upon — mostly by men, sometimes by women — that they “love my enthusiasm.”

The most recent instance of this got me thinking…

Love it… compared to what? To the women who learned to mute theirs?

Am I not supposed to show my excitement for things? When do others lose theirs? What does it mean to lose your natural excitement for life?

When did joy become something to ration?

Personally, I am uninterested in feigning nonchalance. How bloody boring would life be!?

I was once told by a friend that I was “embarrassing” for dancing at a Vogue Magazine party.

To the music.
That the DJ was playing.

Let that fully sink in.

Exactly - wtf.

Somewhere along the way, being visibly alive became socially risky.

And here’s the thing, the cool girl manages the emotional temperature of the room at the expense of her own nervous system.

The body stores what the mouth won’t say.

Rage doesn’t disappear because you branded yourself chill, suppression always collects interest.

As we move into what I’m calling our Revolution Era, this is my invitation:

Stop performing composure.
Start inhabiting truth.

Let your voice be textured, your desire be visible, and your anger move - not metabolize into self-doubt.

So when someone says they “love your enthusiasm,” it is a compliment but it also means it’s rare.

And it’s rare because women are taught:

Don’t be too excited.
Don’t be too angry.
Don’t be too visible.

But Cool?
Oh, cool is socially rewarded.
Cool doesn’t risk rejection.

But cool also doesn’t fully live.

And wtf are we here for if it is not to LIVE!

When someone can’t relax into a fixed version of you, you become slightly threatening, because:

The woman who is visibly enthusiastic is harder to dominate.
The woman who is visibly angry is harder to silence.
The woman who is visibly desirous is harder to control.

That’s why “cool” is culturally prized.

It keeps women digestible.

I am not interested in being cool. I am interested in being undisguised.

As we all should be.

If that makes me too much, too loud, too intense?

Then choking it is.

I’d always rather be alive than digestible.

There’s a reason I’m hosting a Rage Rave in the jungle next week.

With love and fire magic

Sim xxx

There’s a difference between killing the cool girl and learning how to hold your fire though, we’ll go there inside The Dark Room.

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What unfolded in last weeks circle reminded me how powerful it is when we allow ourselves to be witnessed in our truth.

It was clear that most people already know the truth of their lives. What they lack isn’t clarity, but permission to live it.

Discussions on Darkness Live Circle is where we give ourselves permission.

Consider this:

A space to speak honestly about where you are — especially in times like these, where so much feels uncertain.

To be witnessed without judgement.

And to explore what is asking to be reclaimed.

This will not be a webinar or teaching, but a held circle 🖤

A space to speak about what’s been surfacing for you, your divine darkness journey (regardless of where you are on it), what you’re being asked to let go of and what you know you can no longer ignore.

There was a moment in the circle last week that has really stayed with me; in talking about my journey and work with the dark goddess/dark feminine, a woman spoke about how she had felt more connected to her dark feminine side when she was younger. She had been more expressive, dominant, fully herself.

Over the years, she had slowly learned to soften herself - to be more agreeable and shrink herself so others didn’t feel uncomfortable.

She made herself so palatable that she began to feel walked over by her own life and is at the point where she’s now starting again, in a new country.

No surprise then that she was drawn to Kali immediately. She didn’t know anything about her so it was not from logic, but from deep recognition.

We spoke about Kali as the part of us that refuses to keep abandoning ourselves in the name of compliance and “keeping the peace”. The part that ends what is false with the kind of fierce grace that only a mother can have.

When she pulled an oracle card, she received the first card of the deck.

The beginning.

Ooof. It gave me shivers.

I love divination cards for this exact reason - they always mirror what they need to.

It was like witnessing a conversation with a part of herself that had been waiting for her to listen. In that moment, something had been confirmed.

And this is how it often happens - the psyche speaks in feelings, your body tells you when change is needed and the archetype gives it a face.

Suddenly, you can no longer pretend you don’t know.

She didn’t become someone new in that moment but she did see herself clearly once more. She gave herself permission to begin exploring her divine darkness again. Because it is all her. Not something to be ashamed of and banished.

This is how the return begins.

If you’ve been feeling called to step deeper into this space, consider the door held open for you.

This live circle will be open to paid subscribers only.

Upgrade to join us live.

Date: 26th February 2026

Time: Feb 25th | 8pm UK / 9pm CET / 3pm EST / 12pm PST

With love,

Sim xxx

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As we edge closer to the end of the Snake year, I can already feel the flames of the Fire Horse licking at the base of my neck.

But before I throw myself headlong into the furnace of what’s next, I’ve been looking back at the last five years that have stripped me of the “good girl” skin I’d outgrown.

What came back was louder. Clearer. Less willing to shrink.

It was my death phase.

Identity death that is.

And if you are in one, or just coming out of one, or standing at the threshold wondering why your life feels grey, strange or stripped - this is for you.

1. The Practice of Dying Is a Lost Art

The ancient Egyptians lived with death in mind. It was simply a part of life. Their cosmology, preparation and their reverence were generally centered around the afterlife.

Yet in our modern, western world?

Death is hidden. Or whispered about like contraband.

Here is the truth though: we are always dying.

Our cells regenerate constantly. Your body today is not the body you had months ago. Identity is no different. Identity has a lifespan and you can feel when yours is expiring.

And this is what I realised we’re missing out on.

The problem isn’t death.

It’s that no one taught us how to participate in it.

So we cling. We overthink. We try to resurrect versions of ourselves that are already gone. And then we wonder why we feel exhausted.

But if you really listen to your body, you will hear it calling to you.

Life starts to go greyscale. Your energy drains and your body is tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

That’s not laziness. That’s the end of a version of you.

And yes, it is deeply inconvenient. But it is also a necessary part of life.

2. My Need to Dance Was Not Hedonism

For years I judged my desire to move, to rave, to sweat, to lose myself in rhythm.

In a culture that rewards control, dancing felt irresponsible, but in actual fact it was my aliveness.

Dance metabolised what thinking couldn’t.

It was my medicine that moved grief and anger from my muscles.

It is my medicine.

Some people pray.

Some people journal.

I move.

And now? The woman who judged herself for dancing, goes to festivals alone.

I recall leaving Solomun festival in London, completely euphoric after spending the day swimming in his beat choices instead of listening from my house, convincing myself not to go alone.

Best decision ever. I felt more like myself than I had in years.

Did people question me and perhaps low-key feel sorry for me? Yes. Did I give a damn? No.

Why? Because I chose myself.

3. The Power of Eroticism & Kink

Eros is life force.

And for a long time, I underestimated how much of my aliveness was locked behind shame.

After my relationship ended, I had this burning need to reclaim my shadow desires and erotic curiosity, and I discovered a love for kink.

This was not about being provocative.

Kink, erotic exploration, the reclamation of desire — these weren’t about performance.

They were about sovereignty.

When you confront your shadow desires, you stop being run by them unconsciously.

You stop outsourcing power.

You learn that your darkness is not danger. It is merely your depth.

There is something profoundly transformative about meeting the parts of yourself society told you to hide.

I remember my first time in a fetish club - surrounded by people unapologetically exploring their desires - and saying out loud exactly what I wanted. It was met with eager compliance, not derision.

My desire mattered.

When you stop shaming your desire and test your edges, you stop performing softness. You start saying what you need because you value yourself in all your guises.

4. Depression Was My Soul Refusing the Wrong Environment

This one is controversial.

I am not saying that all depression is mystical messaging. Some is chemical, some is trauma and some genuinely needs medical care.

Personally, I could feel that it was misalignment.

I felt - empty. No amount of sleep fixed my exhaustion and all the colours in the world seemed to have dulled a little.

When my body started to involuntarily sigh, I knew something was wrong. My body was trying to keep me alive and I was so dissociated I didn’t even realise.

When I made the choice to change my environment:

My nervous system softened.
My creativity returned.
My libido returned.
My appetite for life returned.

Sometimes when the body shuts down, it’s not because you are weak or no longer capable, but because you are somewhere you should not be and your body is giving you clues to do something about it - before it forces you to.

5. Trust & Surrender Are Muscles

For most of those five years, I had no map and I made decisions that looked reckless from the outside.

There were moments where even I questioned if I had completely derailed my life. Berated myself for it even.

I followed nudges I couldn’t justify.

But even when it made no logical sense; something met me. £300 turned up in a random online account I had, just as I was finishing the taco and salsa bought with my last pesos, in a hostel bed. An opportunity for a cat-sitting gig in a luxury apartment came up as I was in a cafe and wondering where I was going to stay next.

Whether it was a person, or an opportunity, or a sign - it showed up, which was enough for me to take the next step.

My nervous system learned that I could survive uncertainty.

Enter: The Fire Horse

I don’t know what this next cycle holds.

But I do know that the woman who entered those snake years died.

Multiple times.

And I am no longer afraid of that process.

If you are in a death phase right now, stop trying to save it.

The woman who comes back from her own descent does not ask permission in her next cycle.

She laughs louder.

She dresses bolder.

Says no without apology and yes without hesitation.

She moves when she’s called.

If your life feels grey right now, it is not falling apart.

Don’t rush to resurrect a version of yourself because it is familiar.

It is asking you to take stock. Does it truly feel like yours?

What’s coming next cannot enter while you’re clinging to who you were.

With love and magic,

Sim xxx

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In the voice note, I dive into:

• What it costs you to not perform

• How isolating embodied truth can be

• What women are really afraid of losing when they “leave the dark feminine behind”.

So get cosy, press play, then get into the style alchemy embodiment ritual below.

Sim xxx

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Visibility as power.

Visibility as courage.

Visibility as success.

But what is visibility even worth if it isn’t honest?

Who gives a shit what you have to say if it’s in the name of performance?

I’ve been watching the world burn on social media. My heart aching as I witness women take steps forward, only to have to fight to hold their ground while the old world death grips its last vestibule of power.

Neptune has moved into Aries. The era of passive enlightenment is over. The fake gurus are being exposed and the spiritual warriors are ready to be in arms.

And this isn’t theoretical.

Women in Afghanistan have just been legally made second-class citizens by the Taliban - women who have birthed their captors, stripped of autonomy, voice, and any kind of future.

Meanwhile, celebrities are handed Grammys and when asked their opinion, remind you that they are “performers, not politicians.”

Ah, because you’re on the right side.

Visibility is celebrated when it’s convenient. Silence is encouraged when truth becomes uncomfortable.

Women are encouraged to perform and monetise power, until it threatens belonging - then they’re taught to soften, retreat, consider it a “phase”, or rebrand as healed and move on with their lives.

I met a woman recently who told me she was “once into all the dark feminine stuff” but has left it behind to find her life partner.

She showed me photos of how deep her performance had been; rolling in the mud, brandishing an animal skull, screaming into the abyss.

“Yeah I was into Kali and all that, but I’m into that anymore”.

For some reason it bemuses (and low-key infuriates me), but I have noticed this pattern on my travels, time and time again. Women who take a teaching/lifestyle and cosplay it to death, without integrating any of it - be it the dark feminine or plant medicine - only to denounce it as you would your teenage MDMA phase and move on with their lives, or worst - call it all demonic and run back to the church.

But the dark feminine is more than aesthetic and IG vibes.

Embodiment is not performance. It sits in your energy. It is your aura.

Standing in your sovereignty, choosing to express your rage without shame, own your pleasure and sensuality without guilt, are all life long paths. They are necessary for collective feminine healing. We have been performing for the patriarchy for too long. This is our time for true revolution and reclamation.

I will not perform for the algorithm.

I have had too many tearful conversations with women, as they realise that their life was never their own, that they were gas-lit and groomed into subservience and free labour for me to abandon it to be chosen.

I sit with the dark mothers as my guidance and protectors. Placate my inner beast with gentle words of reassurance that everything is fine - for now. But she stays always on guard. Ready to pounce.

Every woman I meet I want to create a safe space for. My dark feminine teachings are from my life; lived experience that taught me the power of my rage, the strength that I hold inside - the strength that I know we all have inside.

This is her-story, our truth.

Cos-playing the dark is not my jam. My lessons are carried in my lineage. They sit in my carcass and whisper truths to me.

Believe me, I tried to ignore them!

I tried to stay in the superficial, the palatable, the materially rewarded. Dress the celebrities and go to to the cool parties.

But I couldn’t shake the knowing.

And then it was confirmed - at the banks of Lake Atitlán - that this is my way.

I don’t perform darkness, in fact I’m often the most colourful person in the room.

But my embodiment is lived, rooted, and inseparable from my story.

Teaching women mirror magic, glamour magic, dopamine dressing, and shadow styling isn’t frivolous.

It’s rebellion.

Writing your rage pages, rage raving, learning how to make your life yours again and romanticise the fuck out of it, creates a fracture in a system dependent on womens compliance.

It’s having the guts to stand ten toes down in who you are — no smoothing of edges, no taming your fire, no shrinking yourself to be digestible.

I will roar and you will hear me.

I will be exactly who I am and I will be honoured.

The work of confronting shadow and rewriting internalised beliefs is an act of liberation from the lies we’ve been fed to keep us docile.

As women in this timeline, we get to choose how we express ourselves.

Many others do not.

They are forced into lives of servitude, submission, and compulsory motherhood. Treated as cattle rather than sovereign beings.

My deepest, eternal dream, is emancipation.

To see women across India, the Middle East, Asia, the Caribbean - everywhere - free to exist, create, and birth lives on their own terms.

And that freedom begins with honesty.

Not visibility that performs power,

but embodiment that risks it.

With love and righteous rage,

Sim xxx

If you want to explore this work further, I have a few 1:1 spaces open for this week. I’ll also be deepening this conversation inside The Dark Room as lived inquiry, with ritual practices included.

Pick your door 🖤

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You walk past a mirror.

Damn. Who’s that woman?

Oop — it’s you, babes. Looking god-damn delicious.

Hip swinging. Hair bouncing. Fully aware you’re that bitch.

You look good.

You feel good.

You smell good.

And no one can tell you anything.

Now let me ask you something -

how far away are you from that reality?

When you look in the mirror, do you flirt with yourself?

Offer cheeky smiles like a lover would?

Or do you keep it functional, eyes skimming past your reflection, getting dressed without really seeing yourself?

Do you recognise the woman looking back at you?

Do you like her?

Or does it feel like you’re wearing a memory…

a version of yourself that no longer fits?

What happens when the old you dies -

and the new you hasn’t fully arrived yet?

That’s when dressing stops being fun, and starts being a battleground.

You’ve changed. Internally, you’ve upgraded. Released the bullshit. Moved through things that split you apart and rebuilt you differently.

Yet here you are, fighting with an identity that you don’t know how to fully release and that you don’t want to express any longer.

This is the phase no one prepares you for.

Where identity fractures and women quietly lose themselves in hormonal shifts that change your body and temperament. Aging in a culture obsessed with youth and sameness.

Motherhood, marriage, divorce - identities that fundamentally reshape how you know yourself.

I’ve worked with countless women who named this exact feeling after giving birth: “I don’t know who I am anymore, and I don’t want to disappear under the weight of this role.”

Now add a career or a spiritual awakening that shatters your old reality, leaving you to rebuild from a new awareness.

Of course style becomes the first place the conflict shows up. It’s your expression, and that expression has shifted.

You buy clothes that make sense on paper. The clothes you should like.

They look fine on the model.

And yet, when you try them on, they don’t feel like you.

We are all wonderfully unique beings with a plethora of likes, dislikes and inspirations. We were never meant to package our complexity into neat little trend boxes designed by an industry that doesn’t know us. Or gives a damn.

Style isn’t aesthetic.

It’s autobiography.

Identity is built over time. It is layered and reinforced. When you have an awakening or a rupture, this identity is shattered.

It becomes a battleground for grief as your psyche clings onto a past self and your mind hasn’t caught up with your body.

I wrote about this moment recently, where identity shatters but coherence hasn’t returned yet.

Rebirth emerged from what I’m witnessing again and again: women standing in the in-between, identity undone, craving coherence rather than another reinvention.

Rebirth is the response to this moment. It is where you get to create who you are, from a fresh perspective of truth. Your truth.

We are moving into a new cycle, and as I reflect on recent conversations - this work feels inevitable.

You are starting from a blank page, writing a new script.

When identity collapses, you don’t need a new look or to “find clothes”,

but to meet (and embrace) who you are now - without flinching.

You let your ambition, desire and rebellion show.

Loud and proud - in your accessories, the cut of your dress that glides over the curves of your body, the self-date you take yourself on dressed up to the nines.

The ridiculously flamboyant outfit that you wear because it’s a Tuesday and you’re alive.

Rebirth is a 90 minute dark feminine embodiment session

Created for women who are:

• in the middle of a rupture or threshold

• Grieving their old body or life

• caught in a “shoulds” cycle that is leaking straight into their wardrobe

In our 90-minute deep dive, we untangle the identity you’ve outgrown and orient you toward the woman you’re becoming.

After our session, you receive:

• a personalised embodiment + style integration pack

• ritual practices to anchor your new identity in the body

• a visual moodboard of your next iteration — not aspirational, but true

This is identity coherence through style.

We’re in a time where more women are disrupting the indoctrinated program than ever before.

Fuck trends.

Personal style tells the story of what you’ve lived through and should evolve along with you.

I add edge to everything I wear - because that’s who I am.

I can be soft and dainty and have a dagger in my ear, a snake on my finger, and a skull at my throat.

All of me gets to exist. Out loud.

Does it confuse some people? Yes. And it intrigues a whole lot more. People are drawn to speak to me but have no idea why.

Radical Authenticity is magnetic.

It gives other women permission to stop editing themselves.

If you’re in the in-between…

the old you is gone and the new you is knocking…

Rebirth is the bridge.

If this names what you’ve been living inside and you are ready to stop negotiating with a past version of yourself Rebirth sessions are now available to book.

With love and glamour magic,

Sim xxx

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I had mentioned the work I do and that I was writing a book on Divine Darkness ( I love seeing peoples reactions to that), and after initially visibly recoiling, she later lent in to tell me her experience with the dark feminine.

Consciously ostracising herself from “civilisation”, in the beauty of solitude, she gave herself a container to release all her pent up emotions. She let her rage run free and release itself from her body. She danced feverishly as if under a spell, cried violently and without apology. She allowed her vessel to fully empty itself of all that it had painstakingly stored over the years of her performing femininity - grateful that her soul awakening had rescued her from the golden cage that she was very nearly about to be trapped in.

Her clarity moment of - wait a min, who the fuck AM I?? What do I want? If it is supposed to be this - why do I feel like I’m taking a long walk off a short plank? (ok, she might not have said the last bit, but that was the gist).

She allowed herself to meet and reclaim the “forbidden” side of her feminine. The exiled parts that she had pretended didn’t exist, keeping their pleas of release at bay behind a heavily locked door.

She realised just how much she was given up to perform a persona that was stealing her power from her.

Her experience wasn’t chaos for the sake of chaos. It was an identity refusing to be carried any further.

Feminine rage is often the first honest response to an identity that has outlived its truth.

What precedes the rage? Rewarded disappearance. The slow silencing of instinct, desire, and dissent in order to remain chosen, safe, or successful.

Throughout 2025, I had more conversations than ever about identity death, self-betrayal, and feminine rage. All new client conversations began with these topics.

Women questioning the life they’ve been told to want because it doesn’t align with their actual wants, and so they assume something is wrong with them, not the system.

Or women who did all the things; the kids, marriage, career, and have been left wondering who they are in amongst all of this life living.

The hard part of it all, is that clarity doesn’t come first. Disorientation does. Confusion and an emptiness that can feel like depression does. There comes a point where the old self just can’t be maintained anymore.

2020 marked the beginning of my own identity death.

I recognise this terrain because I’ve walked it myself; I had a gorgeous warehouse apartment with a jungle full of plants, two adorable cats and a partner of almost 10 years that I loved dearly. I was an in-demand stylist, working on exciting briefs for brands like Adidas and Captain Morgan and yet…I couldn’t shake this nagging feeling that had been slowly taking root for the last couple of years. The quiet cavern that was forming in my soul, rumbled its echo louder as I questioned if this was it? This is just life now - forever?

Enter the rupture.

I had built my whole identity on being a stylist, but my soul was starting to call me back to myself. I couldn’t not hear the ever-present and yet very faint whisper as I busied myself with my life. A quiet yearning.

Then the world abruptly halted and I took that as my sign. If I no longer wanted to perform a self I no longer aligned with, then I have to get real - with myself first and foremost.

I have spent the last 5 years in the underworld - a void that was my de-conditioning space. Dissolving a self that I spent years building. Questioning Why, but knowing that this was my souls path that I had to trust and tread.

And now, with the collectives 9 year cycle coming to its end, I am witnessing more women in this rupture/identity death phase.

Most women panic here and rush to rebuild too fast. Afraid of what it means to sit in the darkness for too long.

But this is where we understand what rage is asking us to stop being.

It’s not:

• a personality flaw

• something to manage away

• something to express endlessly

It’s information.

And for many women, it appears when:

• they “did everything right”

• built the life they were meant to want

• became the version that was rewarded

• and still feel something is off

That “off-ness” is the rupture.

Self-erasure isn’t always dramatic, in fact, it’s often subtle. It looks like competence, adaptability, being “easy” while you silence your needs, instincts and rage.

We curate a version of self that works until our body revolts when it can’t take anymore lies.

The rupture signals & tools for clarity:

Read more

In my world, style is not just getting dressed, it is curating your energy into a visual identity and I work with it as identity reclamation - part embodiment, part ritual, part practical.

So when a friend told me recently that she having an existential crisis and has been questioning if her weirdness is “too much”, I was more than ready to explore it with her.

Over the years, style has disappeared into a blanket of sameness sold as taste. Same faces, same hair, same colours, same, same same.

The eccentrics that once coloured the world are slowly fading away, wiped out by the inevitable hands of time and so, it seems, our desire for individuality is being buried with them, lost in a sea of Cloud Dancers (thanks Pantone).

Personal style is how you externalise your inner world, and as the world destabilises, our inner pschye is having to renegotiate its centre.

People are finding themselves asking:

• What do I actually desire?

• Who am I without the costume?

• Why does everyone look the same if we’re all meant to be ‘free’?

These are not purely abstract questions but adaptive responses to a changing world.

I have a theory on this blanket aesthetic that we’re seeing played out everywhere (well actually a couple but I’ll stick to one for now).

Compliance has been turned into an aesthetic.

This in turn feeds right back into the Good Girl script of:

• Be desirable but not threatening

• Be attractive but not specific

• Be “hot” but only in a way that’s pre-approved

Same-face beauty and bodies, fillers, neutral wardrobes, neutral homes. Trend-obedience = visual compliance.

Existential flatness → a life lived inside permission structures.

We’re at a point now where it is so normal to edit ourselves down, me turning up wearing whatever the fuck I want, produces remarks of “you give me Nina Simone vibes”. In questioning why, the reply was “you just feel like you don’t give a fuck” Why, thank you kind sir, I’ll take that.

What if the feeling that something is missing is actually your most intelligent instinct?

Most women are starving for:

• Permission to be internally complex

• Confirmation that wanting more doesn’t make them ungrateful

Leaning into your “weirdness” is releasing your suppressed vitality.

Living in a place that can sometimes border on being cult-like, me going against the grain with a red afro, a perpetual smorgasbaord of all the prints and colours and excessive jewellery - I often question, what happens after the exorcism? What is the self that you choose once you have supposedly “awakened”?

Unsure of how to embody this new self, I’ve noticed that people simply assimilate. They buy the goddess dress and wear white only. They step into who they think they should be rather than sit down with who they actually are now.

Every identity death creates a style death. But if you’re not careful, you can slip into a caricature of a personality.

Clothes have always been a form of self-expression. In my many years in the fashion industry - what stood out most to me was that people were really afraid of being themselves.

So they played it off as being “cool”, when really they’re just scared to have an opinion of their own.

Conformity + sameness + the good girl are the same wound expressed through different domains.

You may not know it fully, but you’re dressing a ghost. The version of you who endured, performed, behaved.

Not the woman who’s emerging.

The belief - if I look right/dress right /behave right. I’ll be chosen, I’ll be secure - no longer works.

I left fashion because I needed more depth. I couldn’t handle the surface without substance anymore.

The crux of my work is not to have women look different for the sake of it but to stop women erasing themselves. Conformity disguised as empowerment seems to be the the quiet epidemic, so when aliveness leaks out in ways that don’t fit the script, the mind panics and labels it a “crisis”. It’s not. It’s the loss of a false centre.

I choose to run around town visibly idiosynchratic, refuse to smooth myself out and take my pleasure without permission.

When you dress from your ghost however, your clothes are apologetic; you style from fear and not instinct.

You choose safe instead of true and dress for your performance; the self others need you to be while you bury your authenticity in penny loafers instead of the knee high cowboy boots you really want to wear.

Your funeral pyre becomes the foundation for another simulation.

Compliance has a ceiling and when someone starts asking - am I too much? Why does the life I’m “meant” to want feel flat? That is when you’ve hit your head on it.

Like a slippery but strangely comforting snake oil merchant, compliance will always offer belonging.

But it will never offer aliveness.

Aliveness doesn’t guarantee applause, it’s not always “pretty”, it can be inconvenient. It often comes with grief.

And this is what I’ve realised; true freedom isn’t hidden, it just costs more than most are willing to pay.

With love and colourful magic

Sim xxx

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Divine Darkness is not trauma. It’s not rage for the sake of rage. It’s not being ‘unhealed.’”

Divine Darkness is not what you’ve been told. It is the body’s intelligence that women were taught to fear. Why? Because once a woman trusts herself, she cannot be governed the same way.

These are not “steps” to master, they are FORCES.

Living intelligence that lies within you, waiting to be activated.

You may enter through one, but eventually, you will meet them all.

Divine Darkness is:

1. Instinct (Knowing before evidence)

Dismissed as emotion and pathologised as imagination, instinct is the first thing that was taken from you and it emerges particularly when we stop self-abandoning.

It is here where discernment lives; waiting in the moment something feels off long before the mind can justify it. It is when you stop asking “is this valid” and simply trust yourself.

Instinct is cellular memory.

2. Anger (as signal, not chaos)

This is not performative rage. Rage is one expression, yes but it is not the origin.

Anger is not chaos, neither is it constant fury. It is clarity that arrived too late to care to be polite.

Anger appears after instinct has been crossed. When silence was chosen over truth.

In Divine Darkness, anger is not something to be expelled or buried, it is honed and sharpened.

Anger becomes:

• Boundary information

• Heat that clarifies

• Energy that mobilises truth

Rage is what happens when instinct is ignored for too long.

3. Shadow (the exiled self)

Your shadow is not your flaw. It is the parts of you that adapted to survive without approval.

What can it look like?

Ambition, envy, desire to dominate, disappear, destroy, devour.

The parts that were:

• Shamed

• Silenced

• Pathologised

• Called “too much”

Divine Darkness isn’t indulging the shadow, it is integrating them so they’re no longer running the show from your subconscious.

4. Boundaries

Boundaries are decisions. Who deserves access and who does not. They are not walls but rather checkpoints that ask the question “what is no longer available - even if asked nicely.”

A woman in Divine Darkness does not chase understanding. She chooses alignment.

She stops over-giving, over-explaining or over-correcting. She is fine with being misunderstood because she knows herself.

Divine Darkness is not:

Read more

It was more or less the full story.

And yet when I read it over, I could feel the whispers of the truths that wanted to poke their head out and be told as well. I shut them up.

No one cares about that, it’s unnecessary.

But…

Someone felt the missing piece. And told me. And when I checked back in with my body, the words rushed to surface and came tumbling out. They wanted to be told.

Some trauma doesn’t just live in memory - it lives in the cells.

I don’t tell this story often as its haunted me for many years.

I like to write from integrated, embodied truth though and I healed this version of my inner child when I lay incapacitated in Guatemala a few years ago; in a dream, that was really time travel, we relived this scene together. I felt all of the emotions and feels all over again. I was the adult she needed and I hugged her and let her know that she was safe now.

So here is the part of the story that my body wanted me to retrieve.

The real apex of the story.

Divine Darkness - my origin story v2

I trust that those who need it will land exactly where it’s meant to.

With love and unfiltered magic,

Sim xxx

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*If you’re reading this now, note that this is an edited version. My body wasn’t ready to tell the full story the first time. I don’t often tell this story. The trauma of it has taken many years to release itself from my cells.

But I was prompted by a reader and when I sat with it, the words were ready to be released. I will never be able to fully explain the feels of this moment.

I see the scene so clearly in my minds eye each time, but I like to write from my most integrated and embodied truth.

So here is V2.

When I was little, I used to sleep with knives under my pillow.

Not butter knives, or the cute plastic ones you get from that kitchen set all little girls have. Mine were the heavy ones. The real ones. Ones that can do actual damage.

The ones a child shouldn’t even know exist.

Let me take you back a few months… I came home from school one day and there was a strange man in my house. He’d “come to fix the bathroom”. Oh ok, I don’t remember there being anything wrong with the bathroom but hey, what do I know, I’m eleven - max.

The bathroom never got touched and this man didn’t leave.

Weeks turned into a month. Two. Three. My body recoiled around him as every instinct warned of danger.

I would sit across from him at the table every night and wait for his eyes to turn red, his body posture to twist in on itself and him to start growling. Yes you heard right.

Growling.

That growl curdled my blood. I was convinced he was possessed. They don’t call alcohol “spirits” for no reason.

And when I tried to speak? I was dismissed. Silenced. Ignored.

What do I know, I’m just a child. Be nice to him, he’s your elder. He’s my friend.

So I did what girls aren’t meant to do.

I protected myself.

And here’s the part I’ve never said out loud: I was more than scared. I was angry.

I had a deep ball of festering anger that grew inside me everyday as I returned home from school and he was still there. As I sat and watched him, my mother and her other cronies become more and more inebriated with every passing hour. I would wait for his metamorphosis to happen and I would seethe.

Except, I’m a child, who has no idea what it is to “seethe”.

All I knew was that I felt this from the marrow of my bones. This was deep, ancestral anger. Sharp anger. Anger as precise as the blades under my pillow.

Anger gets painted as unfeminine, but mine was clarity. It was awareness, and while I couldn’t name it, something in me knew that something wasn’t right.

This was raw instinct: two cats in the jungle of dysfunction fighting for the attention of a woman too lost in her own sorrow to notice.

One night, the dam broke.

As I lay in the room next to my mother’s and listened to him plead for sex and her pathetic, whimpering responses of being on her period.

Not a no.

Just a shit excuse.

The disgust and betrayal caused every hair on my body to stand to attention. My heart quickened and my senses came alive like a wild animal locking onto its target.

What happened next wasn’t a tantrum. This was pure, blind rage that had been building in a vessel that didn’t know how to contain it.

It wanted blood.

I ran into the room brandishing the knives and ran directly towards him like a rabid animal. Crying, screaming obscenities.

Tears and spittle converging on my face as one river of fury.

YOU FUCKING SLUT! YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT!! HOW FUCKING COULD YOU?!

I’ll never forget the mix of shock and terror across both of their faces. I loved it.

I HATE YOU

I HATE YOU

I HATE YOU

This was the searing heat that exposes what’s dishonest. Unsafe.

What a child should never be navigating alone all while being made to feel like she is the problem.

Murder was on my mind.

I wanted him eradicated.

He disappeared the next day.

I learned boundaries through violation. Through allowing and allowing until I erupted and every fucking thing came down with me.

I figured out who I was - and the importance of Me - as I lay in the rubble of relationships that tried to destroy me.

No-one taught me self-trust. It was survival.

Say what you want but my anger protected me long before any adult ever tried.

And this is the darkness women are told to tame?

To prettify and swallow. To turn into “good behaviour” and let the chips fall where they may.

And here’s the truth that I am willing to say loud AF:

Women don’t fear their darkness.

We’re the number one viewers of true crime and serial killer documentaries don’t forget. No, we fear what will change when we finally trust it and stop apologising for what our body has known all along.

When we let anger sharpen our boundaries instead of shame.

Oh goddess… then we are in for a revolution!

So yeah - I’d say that that was the moment my divine darkness was born.

Just a young girl who loved to read and slept with huge knives under her pillow. Learning that my instincts would always tell me the truth.

And you know the saddest thing about a story like this? We all have one.

Sure the details change, but the pattern is the same. We grew up being told to be “good” and “suffer in silence” so as not to make others uncomfortable, when what we were really being taught is to abandon ourselves. Put ourselves last and make everyone else happy first.

What happens to a woman who stops ignoring the instinct that tried to protect her before anyone else did? When she stops apologising for the power that is trying to save her?

When she stops being good - and gets bloody honest?

That’s the divine darkness that is to be explored.

It’s not evil, or bad - it’s instinct.

This is when destruction becomes your protection. And yet — this is the very darkness the world tells us to suppress.

Go figure huh?

With love and unfiltered magic,

Sim xxx

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Hello darlings and a very warm welcome to the (not so secret) secret room.

I’m glad you’re here. Truly.

This is where we go deeper than my public posts. Deeper into the shadows, the seduction. The truth-telling.

Into the parts of you that are ready to rise through rebellion and reclamation.

Inside The Dark Room, you’ll get access to the upcoming masterclass Incoming: Your Divine Darkness Era, plus monthly teachings on chosen themes, behind-the-scenes styling alchemy, raw voice notes and the living philosophy of the dark feminine as we go through this thing we call life.

Read more

I can finally see that the work I was called to do has its place, and I welcome you all to your seat around the cauldron.

I have been waiting for you 🖤🌹

The “Good Girl” is a haunting.

She is society’s favourite ghost, a spectre woven into the lives of every woman who is taught that her worth is measured in how small, soft, pretty and endlessly accommodating she can be.

But every haunting eventually demands an exorcism.

And I come before you with holy water and the cross of the dark feminine, ready to vanquish the spirit that no longer serves your evolution.

I have always been acutely aware of my anger. I even had an anger management counsellor at one point. Inevitably, she pissed me off.

I have always felt misunderstood.

I was always “too” something:

Too loud.
Too sensitive.
Too friendly.
Too “white.” (?!)
Too bookish.
Too rude.
Too much.
Too goddamn alive.

Meanwhile, I was just learning how to exist. Unaware of the rules that had already been laid out for me for how I should move through the world.

Surely it is my right to live, question and examine as I see fit?

Raised on the (edited) myth of Mary, the pure, obedient virgin, I always had a soft spot for the underbelly and devoured the mythologies as soon as I discovered them: Greek, Egyptian, Roman.

Medusa, Lilith and Circe; the misunderstood women, the punished ones. The unrepentant. I found a kinship with them as I recognised myself in their stories.

I remember reading Madeleine Millers Circe, again a few years ago and thinking “one day I will be a witch like her” and a voice came through me instantly and said “you already are”.

I learnt quickly that there was a “right” way for a girl to be.

And I was not it.

I was a pissed off tomboy who de-sexed herself in high school because I felt that femininity was weakness. From what I saw, women got used, abused and left holding the baby, and that was not going to be my story.

At 41, I see it clearly - my anger was my body’s way of telling me that we are not ok.

It was my compass, my signal flare.

And I was taught to hold my flare underwater and drown it in the sea of niceties, just in case someone became “uncomfortable” with my truth.

From the moment we can walk, girls are told:

“Be nice.”
“Be good.”
“Don’t talk back.”
“Don’t make a scene.”
“Smile.”
“Say yes.”
“Be agreeable”

It’s so pervasive that it’s infected our sexual language.

We’re literally conditioned to feel turned on by being called “a good girl.”

Meanwhile, most women secretly want to be fucked like the grown, sovereign, autonomous beings that they are, not obedient daughters. But that’s a rant for another day.

The point is: the Good Girl is a dangerous archetype for the divine feminine and she must be exorcised.

She is the demon who crosses her legs, lowers her eyes, swallows her anger, and performs emotional politeness as a form of survival.

She appeases to stay safe.
She shrinks to stay loved.
She self-abandons to stay acceptable.

She is a patriarchal survival strategy - not a self.

Women are groomed (yes, I said it, groomed) to prioritise connection over authenticity. To believe it’s morally “good” to self-abandon if it keeps the peace. Hell, it is applauded!

When I left my 10-year relationship, I was shocked at the amount of “you’re so brave” remarks women whispered to me.

Brave for choosing myself?

Brave for (rightly) seeing that this particular juncture had come to an end and the rest of my life awaits.

Brave for daring to explore who I was at that time, gloriously unattached to a man.

Oh but you’ve been together so long! They exclaimed. Yes and yet, I still have many more years ahead of me.

Yes. Because the Good Girl archetype is that dangerous.

And it is she, who is in fact robbing you of the opportunity to be who you are.

Who your soul came here to be.

And so, I have a plot twist:

What if your anger isn’t chaos?

What if it is simply clarity?

Look at the Greek Erinyes - The Furies, they were divine agents of vengeance — embodiments of righteous feminine anger.

They hunted injustice and restored order. That is, until men got uncomfortable and they were domesticated into the “Eumenides” - The Kindly Ones.

Literally an archetypal PR move to make powerful, angry women more palatable!

Purity, self-sacrifice and quiet suffering are not virtues, my darlings.

They are control mechanisms dressed as spiritual ideals.

They are bullshit.

And his-story knows this.

Feminine rage has always been sacred. Holy. Ours.

It’s written in our story and has been scrubbed away to make way for the docile feminine, much like the fate of the Wild Wolf.

Side note - I had a wonderful woman message me that she remembered that she was lethal after reading one of my articles.

This is the movement that we are building - Rememberance. Reclamation.

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My last boyfriend wanted me until I became too real and refused to bend; refused to pretend that I didn’t see his games and manipulation.

When he exasperatedly asked why did I have to “ruin things” (the thing being porn and I was stating the seemingly obvious fact that this is not real intimacy and is often the reason men struggle to actually please women). I lay there, questioning myself. This is where the Good Girl would cave. Apologise and perform sex to please. Shrink.

Yes, I felt sad and slightly teary by his words, but I doubled down on my opinion. I refuse to apologise for how my mind works, for feeling things deeply, or for seeing beyond the surface.

We are clearly just not aligned good sir.

And that’s why I feel why my recent work - the rage pieces, the dark feminine notes - have resonated so deeply with so many women lately.

When a woman stops performing the Good Girl and lets her holy rage breathe and her truth become her beacon, she stops being a ghost in her own life.

She resurrects the parts of her that she had laid to rest and she becomes whole. Sovereign. Unapologetically alive.

And as with any resurrection, people will be surprised. Where on earth did this version come from?!

This is the exorcism.

An exorcism of the lie.

A lie that has kept women ornamental, obedient, and severed from their own fire.

The Good Girl, as you know her, must die so that your whole woman can live.

Are you hearing the death rattle? I feel its melody is whispering its song for us all.

And if you’re wondering how - exorcism begins the moment you stop apologising for your truth.

If you’re ready to burn your Good Girl at the altar of your becoming, my next masterclass dives deeper into this exact threshold.

Discussions on Darkness: Incoming Your Divine Darkness Era

£11 • Free for The Dark Room subscribers

The doors open soon, grab a candle and step in.

With love and revenant magic

Sim xxx

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This one demanded to be born this week. It wouldn’t stop screaming at me until I made it real. It’s for anyone who’s caught in the in-between of shedding and becoming. Whose words are stuck in their throat, and whose blood is quietly boiling.

Introducing: RAGE PAGES

When I was a kid, I used to write my words of anger in my diary so hard that the pen would pierce multiple pages.

I didn’t know how to handle the tsunami of emotions that would overtake me. Words failed me…I would either lash out or cry.

Until crying was banned from my house. Lest I be “given something to cry about!”.

So I turned to my diary. My original rage pages. I didn’t know it then, but that was my way of alchemising the hot heat of emotions I felt, of making my pain tangible, visible, real.

And as I find myself back in familial settings, with the same banisher of tears - an unaccountable parent who is blind to his role as the architect of his downfall - I find my soul calling for these pages again.

And it got me thinking - how many women are still stuffing down their rage to perform niceness?

To tame their wild?

To avoid burning every god damn thing to the ground and thoroughly enjoying the process.

How many of us need to feed their inner beast with the emotions they tuck away?

Today, I want to give you something to release, to reclaim, and to keep you out of prison!

A tool for your dark feminine practice.

The Rage Pages are a space to dump what’s been building up, confront the patterns that no longer serve you, and honour what’s rising inside.

Born from that same impulse - to feel it, write it, release it. It’s not about perfection or politeness. It’s about honesty.

Minimal text, maximum reflection.

Take a few minutes today (or whenever feels right) to ask yourself:

• How many “no’s” have I said today?

• How often have I considered myself first?

• If I disregard what anyone else thinks, how am I truly feeling?

Write it down. Feel it. Let it move through you.

Let this ritual be your tiny act of sovereignty. A whisper to your shadow that it’s safe to show up and be acknowledged.

And yes… this is a taste of the Final Shedding energy, a step into your next cycle - one small, sacred practice at a time.

🐍 Download your Rage Pages here → [My Rage Page]

Print it out, take it with you, scribble in it, colour it, get messy. Make it yours.

The act of physically writing out your rage is so incredibly cathartic. A total system reset.

And once you’ve poured it all out, meet The Dark Meter — your tool for regulation and awareness. Together, they balance the chaos and the calm.

Let it rage queen! You deserve it.

With love, shadow, and fire

Sim xxx

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We spoke about why I created The Final Shedding, the grief that often accompanies rebirth, and what it means to stand in your true vibration in this new era of consciousness.

I love gathering in real time - yes, I’m prone to a tangent or three - but it’s exciting to explore in community what it truly means to shed the layers, the programming, and the stories we’ve been taught to carry.

The shadow work, grief, and the pain we resist can become the greatest catalysts for our next evolution.

We also touched on the power of release and the beauty of becoming who you were always meant to be.

It was basically a ritual in conversation.

If you’ve been feeling the call to return to your truth, meet your shadow, and shed what no longer serves you… Consider this your sign.

Watch the replay above (it’s around 50 minutes, so perfect for a cup of tea and a reflective journaling moment.)

And when you’re ready to deepen this energy:

The portal for The Final Shedding is open until midnight Sunday for £44. After that, the offering rises to £66.

🔥Bet on yourself as we go into this next year and beyond. Step through the portal → here

With love and divine darkness,

Sim xxx

P.S. Join me for the next live video in the app — more ritual, reflection, and connection await.

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