Unclench Me Softly

Chapter One

Sage Smoke and Tax Debt

When your childhood is a mix of naked moon dances, expired canned goods, and a mother who swore she could speak to trees, you grow up with certain expectations about life. Namely: that you’ll die broke, barefoot, and maybe cursed.

I wasn’t raised so much as I was… freeranged.

We moved fourteen times by the time I was twelve, usually because Mom sensed a ‘disturbance in the ley lines’ or got into a turf war with another witch at the co-op.

No formal schooling. No health insurance. But I could read tarot by age seven and once exorcised a possum from our garden using a crystal grid and a chant I made up on the spot. (It worked. Probably. The possum never came back, but neither did our neighbor’s cat. Interpret that how you will.)

My mom believed bathing in rainwater realigned your aura. She once grounded me for using shampoo with sulfates.

So yeah, my childhood was unhinged. But it was mine.

Which is why, when a lawyer called to inform me I’d inherited an entire ‘spiritual wellness estate,’ my first thought wasn’t, Oh, how lucky.

It was, Who the hell died, and what kind of pyramid scheme do they think I’m running?

Turns out, my great-aunt Solara, yes, that was her actual name, passed away after decades of ‘energy work’ and ‘clitoral sunbathing, on a sprawling property called Solstice Hollow, and left it to me.

The good news? It’s beautiful. Solstice Hollow isn’t just a retreat, it’s a full-blown cult starter kit. Crystal altars. Geodesic domes. A koi pond shaped like a vulva. (It has a little pearl fountain and everything.)

And it is mine.

Sort of.

The bad news? It came with $87,000 in back taxes and a very official letter from the county informing me that if I didn’t pay up by midsummer, they’d bulldoze my inheritance.

So... not ideal.

Naturally, I did what any spiritually-adjacent, financially desperate woman raised by chaos would do.

I threw together a fake brochure for a “Sacred Masculinity Awakening Retreat,” slapped in some stock photos of shirtless yoga bros, and sent it to every trust fund man-child my old roommate ever dated.

Then I made a reel about the ultra-exclusive, limited-space wellness experience, complete with aerial drone footage of the compound and me in a white dress spinning in a field like a sexy cult scarecrow. It went viral.

The retreat is “exclusive” because:

There are only six guest rooms (and I’m living in one),

The cost is absolutely ridiculous, and

I am low on ice cream and patience.

The non-refundable deposits were just enough to hire a local handyman, named, very appropriately, Toad, who worked for my aunt and who may or may not be qualified to fix the terrifying electrical system in Dome Two.

And now I’ve got five elite men arriving in two days for a spiritual journey based entirely on a made-up healing program called:

The Five Pillars of Divine Masculine Surrender?.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well. For starters, everything smells faintly like burnt sage and mildew, the plumbing gurgles like it’s possessed, and my handyman just told me, with a completely straight face, that the “spiritual vibration of the septic system” is why the dome toilet won’t flush properly.

“Toad,” I say, trying not to scream or cry or exhale my soul through my nose. “This place is supposed to be a luxury spiritual retreat. I can’t have a toilet demon in the sacred guest dome.”

He shrugs, wiping paint, or maybe something worse, onto his shirt. “Just tell ‘em not to flush too hard.”

“Do you hear yourself?” I ask.

He grins. Toad always grins. He has two teeth and a kind of chaotic forest goblin energy that honestly fits in a little too well around here.

I pick up a half-burnt sage bundle from the floor and wave it at him like it’s a threat. “You realize these men are paying thousands of dollars to heal their wounded divine masculine, not contract mold-related bronchitis in their sleep, right?”

“Air smells fine to me,” he says.

“You live in a van,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but it’s a nice van.” He shrugs.

I groan and turn in a slow circle, taking in the war zone that is Solstice Hollow, aka my great-aunt’s abandoned cult compound slash my current desperate income stream. There’s paint splattered on the floor of Dome One (not artistic—accidental), crystals scattered everywhere like magical landmines, and one of the yoga mats has what I can only describe as an ominous stain.

The lavender labyrinth out back is half overgrown, the koi pond is cloudy with mysterious fish funk, and the ceremonial fire pit looks more like a squirrel graveyard.

But other than that… it’s totally fine.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

I light another sage bundle (that makes four today) and start waving it toward the guest area in a sweeping, panicked arc. It’s not about clearing the energy. It’s about hiding the smell of panic sweat and possibly dead mouse.

“Toad,” I say, because he’s still just standing there like a stoned druid. “Did you finish fixing the leak in the Moon Dome?”

“I put a bucket under it,” he says.

“You put a… Toad, I am charging these men four figures a day for enlightenment! You cannot just bucket their trauma!” I say.

“Looked like a trauma bucket kinda leak,” he says, unbothered.

I squint at him. “Do you even know what that means?”

He shrugs again. “Do you?”

…I do not.

I retreat to the “Sacred Intake Office,” which is really just a shed with twinkle lights, a broken essential oil diffuser, and an Ikea desk that came with mysterious stains. On the wall is a handmade macramé banner that reads Be Your Wholest Self , which I’m pretty sure I bought off Etsy from a woman named Wren who lives in a yurt and has six goats.

I plant myself in the rickety office chair, open my laptop, and pull up the document I titled Welcome Packet Final Final v.3 and pray the printer works this time.

“Okay,” I mutter, half to myself, half to the desperate spirits of the Wi-Fi gods, “Let’s do this.”

I clear my throat, sit up straighter, and try to summon the voice of a woman who definitely didn’t make all of this up at 2 a.m. while panic-drinking lavender wine.

“Greetings, sacred seekers. I welcome you to Solstice Hollow, where the journey inward begins with silence, surrender, and an open pelvic floor, nope. Nope, that sounded better in my head.”

I backspace violently.

The printer, meanwhile, flashes a red light and makes a noise that can only be described as a death rattle.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, pressing the button like that’s ever solved anything. “I saged you this morning, you ungrateful plastic goblin. You’re clear . Your third eye is fine . Manifest the damn handouts.”

The printer beeps again and spits out a half-printed sheet that just says:

FIVE PILLARS OF DIVINE MASCULINE… Page 1 of ??

Honestly?

“Maybe they won’t need a welcome packet,” I mutter, deleting another chunk of text. “Maybe they’ll just… vibe.”

“Greetings, sacred seekers. At Solstice Hollow, you are invited to, no, summoned to, surrender your wounds and awaken the wisdom of your primal self through stillness, sacred breath, and…”

“Toad venom?” a voice says from the doorway.

I nearly fall out of my chair. “Jesus!”

Toad leans against the frame, holding a banana and looking far too pleased with himself. He nods toward the screen. “You should say ‘toad venom.’ Really sells the edge.”

I blink at him. “Why would I tell people we’re using toad venom? Where would I even get toad venom?”

“I know a guy,” he says.

“You are the guy.”

He just shrugs and takes a bite of the banana.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and inhale deeply through what I’ve decided today is my Third Nostril. “Toad, respectfully, I don’t need spiritual branding advice from someone who just installed a trauma bucket and calls himself a ‘plumbing empath.’”

“You’re welcome,” he says, utterly unbothered. “Also, you said ‘awaken the primal self.’ That sounds like sex. Is this that kind of retreat?”

“It is absolutely not that kind of retreat,” I snap, even though my dress is a little low-cut and I did once Google “what is tantric masculine polarity.”

Toad raises an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Open pelvic floor’ says otherwise.”

I throw a sage bundle at his head.

He catches it.

“You know,” he adds, casually tossing the sage like a baseball, “You’re gonna have to believe your own bullshit if you want anyone else to.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

“I’m sorry,” I say slowly, “Did you just mansplain spiritual authenticity to me in my own cult compound?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, heading back out the door, “If you’re gonna con some rich dudes, you might as well make it feel real. For both of you.”

I don’t respond.

Mostly because I’m re-reading the line “open pelvic floor” and wondering if it’s actually… kinda brilliant.

Toad disappears, leaving behind the faint smell of banana and some kind of herbal oil that I suspect he makes in a crockpot.

I sigh, crack my neck, and turn back to my laptop. The printer is now blinking a sad blue light, like it’s giving me emotional support through technical failure.

“Okay, let’s try again,” I mutter, standing up and facing the mirror I’ve propped against the wall with an intention candle and three randomly chosen crystals. None of them match, but I’ve decided they represent “masculine release,” “creative confidence,” and “vibe protection.” Or maybe they’re just pretty.

I take a breath, put on my best soft-guru energy, and lift my hands like I’ve just caught a blessing out of the air.

“Welcome, sacred seekers,” I say to my reflection. “At Solstice Hollow, you will be gently, but firmly, guided through the Five Pillars of Divine Masculine Surrender.”

I pause, take a deep breath and do a floaty hand motion that I think suggests divine flow but may actually look like I’m trying to hail a cab in slow motion.

“Each day will be a journey through one of the Pillars. You’ll unclench the jaw of your soul, rewild your inner cub, sit in the stillness of your root, oh god, does that sound like a fart thing? and, uh… burn your false king to reveal your wounded boy. That’s fine, that’s good. That’s like… emotionally nutritious.”

I glance down at my notecards, where I’ve scrawled half of this with a purple gel pen and possibly smeared chocolate.

“And finally, we’ll, uh… receive the softness. Offer the seed. Or something. That sounds vaguely sexual, but I think I can make it sound sacred with the right lighting.”

I squint at myself in the mirror. My dress is wrinkled, there’s paint on my elbow, and I look like someone who recently fought a printer and lost.

“Do I need a sixth pillar?” I mumble. “Five feels unbalanced. Six is a whole number. Six is even. Six is symmetrical. Should I?”

A sudden, deafening roar cuts through the stillness like a hell beast tearing through a yoga class.

I freeze.

That is not a lawnmower.

That is not a sacred drum.

That is not anything that should be happening on this supposedly tranquil property.

The sound grows louder, closer, meaner. A motorcycle. Big. Loud. Aggressive.

“No,” I whisper, spinning toward the window. “No, no, no, who shows up early to a healing retreat? Only people who want refunds. Or blood.”

The bike revs again, echoing off the trees like a spiritual warning shot.

I grit my teeth, grab a half-burned incense stick from the desk like it’s a weapon, and march toward the door.

“So help me, if this is one of those men trying to assert their divine masculine by revving their engine into my third eye, I’m going to lose my entire alignment.”

I throw open the door, walk outside, and stare straight into the oncoming chaos.