In the old north, Hel is not a villain but a keeper of thresholds—the quiet hand that steadies us when we meet what cannot be changed. Tonight we walk her road to face a modern affliction: the dread of endings—breakups, lost work, illness, the slow wintering of a dream. Anxiety urges flight from the dark. Hel teaches us to sit with it until our eyes adjust.

First, name what is ending. Speak it without embroidery or apology. The ancients knew an unnamed thing becomes a noisy ghost. Say it plainly: this chapter is closed; this person is gone; this version of me is finished. Feel how the breath loosens as truth lands.

Second, practice the Hel-breath: in through the nose for four heartbeats, out through the mouth for six, as if fogging winter air. On the long exhale, picture frost clarifying a windowpane. The extended out-breath signals safety; the body learns the ground will hold.

Third, light a small candle and ask three questions Hel loves:

1) What is truly dead and deserves burial?

2) What is only sleeping and needs time?

3) What is trying to be born from this ending?

Write the answers without judgment. Grief and growth are siblings; both sit at Hel’s table.

Fourth, take a threshold walk. Find a doorway, a bridge, the line where stone meets water. Step across and back three times, naming what you leave and what you carry. Ritual gives the nervous system markers; the body believes what the feet rehearse.

When memory rises like cold fog, place one hand on chest and one on belly—the Hel-rope that anchors breath to heartbeat. Whisper, “I can be with this.” Shame loses power when met with companionship. You are not alone; ancestors who survived harsher winters keep pace beside you.

Finally, make a covenant: for nine nights, tend one small living thing—water a plant, clear a drawer, write a letter you do not send. Hel honors those who feed life while grieving the dead. Anxiety starves when life is nourished in steady, faithful portions.

The secret of Hel is not morbid but merciful. Endings are doors. Sit in the dim long enough, and you’ll notice: the dark is fertile, and your eyes remember how to see.

Be Well my Friends,

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