Sinning Our Way to Sovereignty
What if sin isn’t the problem—but the path?
This post is a love letter to every woman who’s ever been told she’s too much, too loud, too sensual, too rebellious, too… herself.
It’s for the ones who’ve tasted the forbidden fruit and dared to want more. The ones who left the garden, or got kicked out of it, or never fit there to begin with.
Here, we untangle sin from shame, reclaim it as a sacred detour back to essence, and meet a sea glass dream-creature who nibbles our skin to set us free.
Welcome to a journey through myth, sociology, body memory, and ritual.
We’re not here to confess our sins.
We’re here to celebrate them.
🍎
Here’s What We’re Biting Into
🫀 The Ache in the Chest
🎯 What is Sin, Really?
🍎 Sinning Our Way to Sovereignty
🎠 Meet Myrrhine: Sin-Eater Extraordinaire
❤️🩹 Where the Sin Lives: The Body as Archive
🕯️ Ritual: Nibble Me Free
🫁 Post-Spell Body Note
Ready to reclaim the bite, the body, and the truth beneath the shame?
Let’s begin.
🫀 The Ache in the Chest
As I sit here writing this, I’m surprised by the contraction and pressure I feel in my chest. Like my heart’s about to leap out of me. It’s almost as if some part of me is trying to prevent this post from being born.
Its current inner dialogue?
“Oh no…you’re really going to write this? And post it on your blog? Are you crazy? You do know people might read it, right? And even if no one sees it, it’ll still be out there… in the ethers. You know this, right?”
Yep. I see you, fear. 👀
I raise my cup of hot tea and sip in celebration of you. I know you’re trying to keep me safe. I get it. You think inhibition is protection. But let’s be real: your “protection” is just another form of silencing. Of suppression. Of shrinking.
So—duly noted. I offer you love, gratitude, and a warm place to rest beside me.
But I’m forging ahead.
Because yes—I’m about to express my encouragement of sinful behavior.
Not as a source of shame.
As a sacred process of sovereign reclamation.
This is a space where “sin” is celebrated—not punished, banished, repressed, or persecuted. 🍎
🎯 What is Sin, Really? (Spoiler: Not What You Were Taught
We’ve been told that to sin is a bad thing. A moral failure. A rule-breaking. A trespass against God, goodness, or order.
But who made those rules?
As a sociologist and criminologist, I know: morality is a social construct—a product of power, patriarchy, and religious institutions. It’s not objective truth. It’s control dressed up in righteousness.
You’re a “sinner” if you don’t abide by someone else’s rules.
But let’s go back to the root of the word.
The etymology of sin?
It wasn’t originally about evil or immorality.
It was an archery term.
It meant:
🎯 You aimed... and missed.
🧭 You were off-course.
🌀 You strayed from your essence.
Not a damnation. A directional correction.
Not a stain on your soul. A signal that you’ve wandered from your truth.
Later, sin was moralized and weaponized—especially in Judeo-Christian traditions—to enforce obedience and control bodies. Especially female bodies, queer bodies, sensual bodies, rebellious bodies.
And then we get the myth of the Garden of Eden.
Eve eats the apple from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Offers an apple to Adam. And suddenly, we're all sinners.
They’re banished from paradise, naked and ashamed. And when questioned, Adam blames Eve—for tempting him.
Because apparently, he had no agency over his own behavior. 🙄
Dude. You ate the fucking apple.
Take some fucking responsibility.
As a woman, I’m tired of being blamed or punished for the shitty behavior of men.
And I’m tired of the story that we are born bad. That we carry the mark of “original sin.” That we are shameful for wanting, for knowing, for biting the fruit of discernment.
According to this myth, God didn’t want Adam and Eve to eat from the Tree of Life because they’d become immortal—like him. That’s not a benevolent god. That’s a control freak with a power complex.
Maybe the “original sin” wasn’t a mistake.
Maybe it was a sovereign act of rebellion.
Maybe Eve wasn’t deceived by the snake—maybe she knew.
Maybe we aren’t sinful because of what they did.
Maybe we’re aching because of what we’ve been taught to forget.
🍎 Sinning Our Way to Sovereignty
So when Eve ate the fruit—
Was it a sin?
Yes. In the original sense.
She refused the target that had been handed to her.
She aimed her arrow elsewhere—toward knowing, toward selfhood, toward freedom.
She missed the mark they imposed.
And in doing so... she hit her own.
Yes. Exactly that.
We’re reclaiming the term at the soul level.
Many of us rebellious women—me included—have long praised Lilith for her refusal to be subservient to Adam. She said no. She walked away. She chose herself.
And as I deepen into the Eden myth, I’m falling for Eve’s rebellious vibes too.
She ate the fucking fruit and got kicked out.
Lilith left.
Eve was cast out.
Both acts of sovereignty. Both punished.
Lilith was demonized.
Eve was shamed.
I have a t-shirt that says:
Be a Lilith, not an Eve.
But… do I have to choose?
Because honestly—
they’re both rule-breakers.
They both said no to a system that asked them to forget their power.
Be a Lilith and an Eve.
If sin once meant “missing the mark,” then we—feral witches, wild women, sacred rebels—are choosing to miss the mark on purpose.
Not because we’re lost—but because their mark was never ours to begin with.
We sin by refusing obedience.
We sin by choosing pleasure.
We sin by saying yes to desire, truth, rage, and reclamation.
We sin by giving death to the conditioning that keeps us from our soul’s essence.
And every time we say “not anymore” to patriarchal control—
Every time we step off the mapped path and carve our own way through the woods—
We are, gloriously, sinning toward sovereignty.
The original sin was disobedience.
It was looking at a system that said:
Stay small. Stay pure. Stay obedient.
And answering with:
I’ll decide that for myself. 🍎
That moment wasn’t a mistake.
It was a threshold.
And women have been punished for it ever since.
But here’s the truth:
We are the descendants of that refusal.
We are the daughters of dissent.
And every time we say yes to our own body, our own truth, our own becoming—
we’re committing the original sin all over again.
And thank the gods and goddesses for that.
🎠 Meet Myrrhine: Sin-Eater Extraordinaire
Myrrhine
Patron Saint of Sacred Nibbling
A couple of weeks ago, I had a dream where I met a creature.
I was inside a big warehouse—some kind of psychic training center, maybe for mediumship. There was a rectangle table with space for eight: one person at each end, and three along each side. I noticed one seat still open—the middle spot along one of the sides.
I hovered, deciding whether to take it. And that’s when I saw her.
A sheep… or maybe a small horse.
But not quite either.
She was standing on the table, yet somehow not. No one else seemed to notice her. Her body looked like slush—bits of brown and beige and blood-red, wet and shiny like viscera. Like patches of fleshy skin woven together like a picnic basket. The left side of her face was collapsed. I could see into her skull, glistening with sheen.
And then she asked:
“Can I take a nibble of your skin?”
If I let her eat my skin, she said, I’d begin an inward journey—like a psychedelic plant medicine experience but without the psychedelics. I saw it clairvoyantly. I felt afraid. What part of me would she nibble on? My right shoulder, it seemed.
I wanted to say yes, but I wasn’t ready. Not yet. Other people were still arriving.
She reminded me of Mari Lwyd—the Welsh Yule-tide horse skull spirit who knocks at your door and demands a rhyme battle to enter. And maybe that makes sense.
Because I later realized…
She’d already arrived.
Not the Mari Lwyd washi tape that’s slotted to become one of my myth-themed wahsi tape holiday trees.
The being who’s been sitting in my office for two months in the form of a carousel horse made of sea glass (pictured above).
She’s not just a dream visitor. She’s an emissary.
A creature.
A guide.
A Parton Saint of Sacred Nibbling.
Who later revealed herself to be…drum role…a sin-eater.
A sin-eater is someone who performs a ritual meal to absorb the sins of the dead—so that the soul can pass peacefully to the afterlife.
Traditionally, this role shows up in Welsh and Celtic communities, often performed by outcast figures—needed but feared. More recently, I’ve heard of sin-eating in plant medicine circles, where the shamanic practitioner “eats the sins” of those in ceremony—metabolizing their suffering through their own body to assist in healing.
Myrrhine isn’t a shaman.
She doesn’t eat food.
She eats skin.
Not violently—ritually.
She nibbles at the body’s first boundary, the flesh that holds our history.
She chews through the layers of conditioning that keep us from our essence.
She digests the conditioning we’ve worn like armor: obedience, shame, silence, “niceness.”
Myrrhine doesn’t shame you for your sins. For carrying, storing, believing conditioning that keeps you off the mark from your soul’s essence.
She asks for a nibble.
“Let me take what no longer serves you.”
She’s not what you’d expect from a holy emissary.
Part carousel horse.
Part fleshy, shadow beast.
Part cryptic oracle.
She’s made of sea glass—softened by her tumbling through oceanic underworlds.
She looks a bit scary and off-putting.
With her soft eyes and glistening flesh.
A collapsed cheekbone and a whisper-mouth.
She appeared first in dream. Then in vision.
Now?
She lives in my office. In my bedroom.
And goes on outings to participate in my rituals.
When she chews through your hiding, your shame, your generational “good girl” performance?
What’s left behind is the raw, holy truth of who you actually are.
Unvarnished.
Untamed.
Unleashed.
❤️🩹 Where the Sin Lives: The Body as Archive
Sin isn’t just an idea. It’s an imprint. It’s an ancestral spell spanning millennia.
Conditioning doesn’t float above us like fog—it burrows. It nestles into fascia, muscles, nerves, bones, organs.
It lives in the flesh.
The places where you flinch.
The tension in your jaw when you try to speak your truth.
The ache in your chest when you consider taking up space. Or writing this blog post. 😉
The numbness in your belly around desire.
The curve in your spine from bowing too long to someone else’s rules.
The buckle in your knees.
These are not just emotional residues. They are cellular encodings.
Signs of how long you’ve carried the story: you are too much, not enough, fundamentally wrong.
That’s why Myrrhine asks to eat your skin.
Not your soul. Not your mind.
Your skin.
The threshold between the inside and the outside.
The first place your body learned to brace, shrink, cover, or perform.
She nibbles the places where the world taught you to armor up.
The places where your body tried to adapt to survive.
Her bite is gentle. Ritual. Sovereign.
She is not here to punish.
She is here to liberate the body from the blueprint of shame.
When Myrrhine chews the story from your skin, she’s telling your nervous system:
You don’t have to carry this anymore.
You’re allowed to belong to yourself.
She’s not undoing your history.
She’s digesting the parts that never belonged to you in the first place.
🕯️ Ritual: Nibbble Me Free
A Devotion to Myrrhine, the Sin-Eating Nibbler
I didn’t go looking for a sin-eater.
I didn’t know I needed one.
But, in the wee hours of the morning, she arrived in my dream space—
and Myrrhine has been with me since. 🎠
If you’d like to commune with her, here’s a ritual to offer Myrrhine a symbolic “bite” of the flesh where conditioning lives, and invite her to nibble loose the shame, silence, or submission stored there.
This ritual honors the skin as memory, and invites reclamation of your body’s sovereign truth.
🕯️ Ritual Items
A candle (white, bone-colored, or seafoam if you like)
An apple (or a small piece of bread, chocolate, or dried fruit)
Oil or balm (to anoint the place on your body you’ll offer)
A mirror (handheld or altar-sized)
Optional: Something to represent Myrrhine
a piece of sea glass
a strand of seaweed
her name written on paper
a picture of a carousel horse
or anything else you feel called to incorporate
🕯️ Opening
Light your candle and say aloud:
“I open the gate between seen and unseen.
I invite the one who gnaws through shame and skin.
Myrrhine, sin-eater and boundary whisperer—
Come nibble what I no longer need.”
Place your hand on your chest—or wherever you feel the imprint strongest today.
You might ask:
Where have I been trained to shrink?
What part of me has carried the weight of obedience, silence, shame, guilt, or fear?
Trust your body’s answer. Let your hand rest there.
🕯️ Anoint & Offer
Take the oil or balm and gently anoint the spot on your body.
As you do, speak:
“This is the flesh that held the spell.
This is the skin that bore the brand.
This is the place I now reclaim.”
Look into the mirror. Hold the gaze as long as feels right.
Then offer the apple or food item—hold it to your heart or lips and whisper:
“Take this bite, Myrrhine.
Let it feed you as I shed the skin of who I was told to be.”
Take a bite of the apple (or other food offering) as an act of devotion to yourself.
Chew it slowly. Sensually.
An act of sacred defiance.
Savor it like it’s the nectar of life—because it is.
🕯️ Invocation
With one hand on your body and the other near the candle or mirror, speak:
“Nibble me free, skin-eating friend.
Take the guilt that was never mine.
Chew through the net of obedience.
Crack the seal of silence.
Feed on the fictions I no longer consent to carry.”
Then whisper (or shout, if the moment calls):
“I sin my way home—one nibble, one bite at a time.” 🍎
Let the moment linger.
Feel what shifts.
🕯️ Close
Place both hands over your body and say:
“I seal this reclamation in my cells.
My skin belongs to no story but my own.”
Blow out the candle.
Eat the rest of the apple (or other food offering),
or leave your offering until morning,
or bury it—whatever feels resonant.
And maybe—just maybe—
imagine that Lilith and Eve rejoice on your behalf.
I know I am. 🎉
🫁 Post-Spell Body Note
As I write this closing line, I notice that the pressure in my chest has eased.
The contraction that once made it hard to breathe has softened.
My ribs—once holding the ache—feel spacious again.
And maybe that’s its own little reclamation.
I’m no one’s rib (talking to you, Adam).
I’m the whole damn body.
And tonight, I’ll soak in the bath not as someone cast out—but as someone who chose to walk out.
Sinning my way to sovereignty.
One ritual, one spell, one action, one blog post at a time.
Love,
Heidi
If something stirred within you as you read this—a memory, a desire, a howl—know this:
You’re not alone.
There’s a private circle forming for those who live between grief and fire, burial and blooming, the mirror and the blade.
The next round of Virgin Sacrifice is abrew:
The Rites of the Feral Sisterhood.
🔪 Join the Sacrificial Delights private list (link below).
Want something more intimate?
I also offer limited 1:1 work for those craving a personal descent and sovereign resurrection.
Contact me via email here:
