Fylgja, Keeper of My Strength

Lately, my body has been its own battlefield. Some days the pain sits quiet. Other days it’s a storm I can’t outrun. When it gets bad, I go somewhere in my mind. Not anywhere I’ve been before… but somewhere I know.

The field is always there first. Mist hanging low. The air thick and heavy. Then she comes. A dark mare, mane tangled, eyes like old iron. She doesn’t rush. She circles. Lets me feel her before I see her.

The old ones would call her my fylgja...The follower. Part of my soul. Tied to my luck, my thread, my life. She doesn’t speak. She moves, and I understand. When I can’t carry myself, she carries me.

In the sagas, a fylgja could be a sign. A warning. A promise. For me, she’s a way back to my breath.

When the pain comes, or sorrow, or that sharp edge of panic, I hear her hoofbeats in the back of my mind. I smell the warmth of her mane. I feel the earth shake as she runs. I am home. And just like that, I’m not in my body’s war anymore.

I’m riding. She has never left me there. Not once. Every time I’ve needed to escape, she’s come. Every time I’ve needed to remember I’m still alive, she’s run with me until I could feel it again. She is the keeper of my strength when I need it most.