The Horned Women and The Well

A Reflection on Maternal Rage

Children are beautiful, wild creatures. They have much to teach us about life—about ourselves. They are more open to the love that surrounds us. They show us how to embrace authenticity and true presence. They live in the moment and, like the person depicted in the Fool card, they march forward in life with chest thrust forward and arms open—ready to embrace whatever life brings.

They have not yet been domesticated by outside expectations, past mistakes, or emotional baggage passed from generation to generation.

We, the mothers, are the keeper of the door—holding fast against the chaos, grief, and hatred that rends the world.

But how long can we hold on?
And what happens when the demon lurks inside the house?
Inside the mother herself?

Let the tales of old guide us.

The story of Little Briar Rose (also known as Sleeping Beauty) warns us of the danger of trying too hard to protect our children from the world. But it’s harder to name a tale that warns us of what happens when we neglect our own needs—when we try to mother from an empty cup, and resentment begins to fester.

In Jungian analyst Lisa Marchiano’s Motherhood: Facing and Finding Yourself, she takes us on an adventure through many archetypes—one of which is the Horned Women. An ancient story about a woman who, after the family is asleep, stays up late completing domestic tasks neglected during the day as she cared for everyone else.

One can hardly blame her for feeling a bit put upon, no?

But this is when we are most susceptible to psychic eruptions of our shadow side. In this tale, an entire coven of witches—each with a growing number of horns from one to twelve—barges into the woman’s home and takes over her tasks at a manic pace.

The woman is powerless, under their spell, until she is instructed to fetch water from the well using a sieve. An impossible task. She weeps, demoralized. The spirit of the well takes pity on her and whispers the secret of how to carry the water—and how to chase the witches away. She listens. She acts. She is able to protect her home.

Each horned woman represents a different facet of rage born from unacknowledged grief:
the one who stayed up nursing while her husband blissfully snored;
the one who gave up her art;
the one who held her tongue to “keep the peace.”
Resentment. Exhaustion. Buried ambition. Ancestral trauma.

Marchiano writes:

“The day I became enraged at my daughter was the first time the witches knocked on my door.”

Sometimes rage feels like an out-of-body experience, like you’re watching yourself do something you don’t agree with but are powerless to stop.

“We have the humbling experience of knowing our conscious self is not in charge. We see how divided our psyche is. One part very much does not want to do what we are doing. Another part is enjoying it.”

This morning, I threw a plastic lawn chair.

I just wanted to get some work done in the garden and connect with my plant spirit friends. First of all, it was 100°F at 9:30 in the morning. Second of all, my two-year-old is usually pretty good at entertaining herself for 20 minutes—or ‘reading’ quietly in my lap while I meditate. But today she was on a tear: pulling green tomatoes off the plants, tipping over the birdbath, squeezing between the fence and the chiminea and “getting stuck” for the zillionth time.

I managed to put her in her room with a stern:

“I have work to do and you’re being very destructive! I don’t like it!”

That last part came out much harsher and louder than I’d like. She cried as I closed the gate to her room.

Cue my inner shame system, right on time:

You’re just like your mother.
Blaming language is not helpful.
You should know better…

The overwhelm was real. The rage rose in my throat like hot, black bile. I knew I couldn’t contain it.

So I went back outside and threw a giant fit—screaming, kicking, hurling tiny lawn furniture.

Ugh. So spiritual. So mature.
Hi neighbors. Heh.

But what can we do?
How do we overcome?
What can soothe the dragon of maternal rage?

First, give yourself permission to be angry. Anger is often a sacred signal—born of unmet needs and buried grief. But be careful where it’s aimed. So often, the person who has betrayed us... is us. We expected ourselves to be perfect. We didn’t ask for help. We gave until we collapsed.

Accepting the feeling and letting it move through us is what allows it to shift—so we can express what we actually need, instead of unleashing what we’ve been suppressing.

We must reconnect with the inner whispering well—the one who taught the woman how to send the witches away.
Wells are sacred thresholds of Earth and Water.
And both are capable of quenching the fire of rage.

🌊 Water reminds us to soften. To listen inward. To let the storm pass before we speak.
🌍 Earth reminds us to rest, to eat, to touch the ground with our bare feet. When we tend to our body, we anchor ourselves. We model self-regulation. We stay within our window of tolerance—and recognize when we’re leaving it.

If we stay tuned to the body, we can catch ourselves before we break.
Place one hand on the heart and one on the belly.
Breathe.
Ask:

What do I need right now?
Can I give it to myself—or ask someone else?

And sometimes, the answer is:
Scream into a pillow.
Throw a stuffed animal at the couch.
Stomp. Cry. Rage.

You are allowed to feel how hard it is.
You are allowed to be angry that mothering is often thankless, invisible, endless.
You are allowed to feel angry at yourself for being angry.

You don’t need permission to be human.

It is also okay to have boundaries. To say no. To build breaks into your day. To teach your child that the world does not revolve around them—because that, too, is a sacred act of love.

As Magda Gerber reminds us:

“A lack of discipline is not love. It is neglect.”

Learning to accept maternal rage is no small task in a culture that fears it.
A culture that insists mothers be soft, selfless, and saintly.
A culture that turns away from the truth that sometimes, the mother is the danger.

Maternal rage is a threshold of transformation.
Motherhood is trial by fire—initiation, after initiation.

When the rage arrives, it asks:

What shall you do with me?
Shall you alchemize lead into gold?

You are at a crossroads.
Will you continue to play the martyr, the victim, the perfect untouchable one?
Or will you stand in your true power—by softening to the embrace of balance, reciprocity, and right relationship?

The path is yours to forge.

And always—beneath it all—the Great Mother waits.
She knows the ache. She knows the fire.
And still, she holds us.