Listen Linda

She’s on my wall—not because I believel in gods,
but because I believe in moments.
The kind that split you open.
The kind that ask you to choose.

Hecate, the triple-faced one.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t soothe.
She stands.
At the edge of everything I used to be.

She’s not there for ceremony.
She’s there because she knows what it means
to live between worlds.
Between the ache of addiction
and the fragile breath of recovery.

I didn’t hang her for beauty.
I hung her because she understands
what it feels like to be torn
between staying numb
and daring to feel again.

Her three heads—maiden, mother, crone—
they aren’t myth to me.
They’re memory.
They’re the girl I was,
the woman I’m becoming,
and the elder I hope to meet someday
with grace in her eyes.

She sees my past.
The nights I begged for silence.
The mornings I woke up ashamed.
She sees my present—
this trembling, sacred now
where I choose to stay.
And she sees my future—
not promised, but possible. In AA, they call it the crossroads.
That place where you surrender.
Where you stop fighting
and start listening.

She’s there.
Not to rescue me.
But to remind me
that I already did the hardest thing—
I chose to live.

She holds space for my steps.
For the letting go.
For the awakening that still feels
like a quiet miracle.

She’s not a goddess to me.
She’s a witness.
To my pain.
To my courage.
To the way I keep walking
even when it hurts.

She watches me heal.
And somehow,
that makes me feel less alone.

The image of Hecate on my wall isn’t there for decoration, nor for ritual, nor to serve as a spiritual altar. She’s there because she is my recovery. Not a goddess I worship, but a mirror of the journey I’ve walked—the jagged path between destruction and rebirth.

In Alcoholics Anonymous, the “crossroads” is more than a metaphor. It’s the soul’s reckoning. A moment when the old self must die so something new can emerge. And Hecate, the triple-headed goddess, stands exactly there—at the threshold. She governs sky, earth, and sea, but more importantly, she sees what I’ve lived, what I’m living, and what I’m becoming. Past, present, future—she holds them all.

She straddles boundaries: life and death, light and shadow, knowing and mystery. That’s where I met her. Not in a temple, but in the quiet agony of surrender. She didn’t offer salvation. She offered clarity. Protection. The kind of guidance that doesn’t speak in words, but in presence.

Her three faces—maiden, mother, crone—aren’t just archetypes. They’re stages of my own evolution. The innocence I lost, the strength I’ve cultivated, and the wisdom I’m still learning to trust. She reminds me that transformation isn’t linear. It’s cyclical. Messy. Sacred.

In AA, the crossroads is made of three things: the step work that breaks you open, the letting go that humbles you, and the spiritual awakening that rebuilds you. Hecate embodies all of it. Her image on my wall is more than symbolic—it’s a tether. A reminder that I’ve stood at the edge of oblivion and chosen life. That I’ve walked through the fire and found grace.

She is my sponsor in spirit. My guide through the steps. My higher power in metaphor. She lives between worlds, just like I did—between addiction and recovery, despair and hope, numbness and feeling. And that’s why she makes sense to me.

She is the crossroads.
And I am the one who chose to walk through.