In Malta, My Roots Run Deep
I am my father’s daughter, as challenging as it is, at times, to associate myself with the man whose indoctrination forbids him from seeing me as the woman I am today.
By the age of three, my wild halo of dark curls and olive skin bore an obvious imprint of the ancient Mediterranean world. Though born on Gadigal Country, all who knew me could see that my story had begun long before my birth on Australian soil.
My lineage traces far across these waters, beyond these crystalline shores to another island, rich in ancient history that reaches back—as far as we know—to Neolithic times, when the Great Mother Goddess reigned, and people lived in intimate relationship with the land, sea, and cycles of life. A time very different to the era we find ourselves in as I write these words to you.
It was Malta that called me home at the age of thirty-five, in both the literal sense and home to my embodied femininity, back into the Holy Womb Chakra of life itself, remembering who I was, where I came from and why I came here this time around.
In the European summer of 2021, I escaped the Alcatraz that was Australia during a time of global upheaval. I had decided it was time to move to Malta, to take refuge on an island that so many had found refuge on before me. The name itself originates in the Phoenician times, from the word Maleth (𐤌𐤋𐤈), which translates to “haven” or “safe refuge.” And that’s what it was for me—a refuge—during a time of great heartache; a time when my world (and the world) turned upside down, and I wasn’t sure where, if anywhere, I belonged.
I had once again found myself at the place in between, the birth canal between one life and the next. It was a place familiar, yet unnerving. Enticing, yet terrifying just the same. You know you can’t turn back, but the way forward isn’t clear. Uncertainty greets you, reminding you that all there is to do is surrender.
Is this what souls feel when they come and leave this world? After all, we must accept the ending of something so that rebirth can take its rightful place.
Whether I was consciously aware of it or not, I was accepting that a part of me had died back in Australia. A chapter in the story of my soul had closed for the next to be written…literally.
During the subsequent months in Malta, after landing on her limestone shores like a stowaway from another age, I wrote my first book, Soul Truth. Its pages became a modern clay tablet of remembrance, an offering to the life I had lived, the truths I had uncovered, and a story I hoped would endure beyond my own lifetime.
As I wrote the words of Soul Truth, the rebirth was occurring simultaneously. I commenced an utterly transformational inner journey through the birth canal of the sacred portal, heading towards landscapes I had only once envisioned, a long time ago in the luminous womb where dreams are formed.
Inside the darkness, the place where seeds grow, I, too, was growing. I met myself as woman, as mother, as portal keeper. I remembered my place in the long story of the feminine; my fingers weaving the red thread that connects me to Her, the Great Mother. I uncovered the lies I had been told about my place in the world, mapped labyrinths, cracked forgotten codes, journeyed through layers of consciousness, dug up forbidden wisdom, relentlessly searching for the woman I had always been in a world that had forgotten to tell me I was sacred.
When Malta received me into her embrace, I recognised that these islands were not simply the home of my ancestors; they were keepers of the keys, guardians of the parts of me that had been buried beneath centuries of forgetting. The island held secrets embedded within her limestone floors. Secrets carried upon her winds. Secrets resting within her ancient temples, waiting for a time to resurface.
I believe that time is now.
Women across the world are reclaiming lost stories, rediscovering rites of passage, and remembering that our bodies, our voices, and our cycles were once considered sacred. What was hidden is being brought into the light. What was forgotten is being spoken once more.
This is my path, as it is yours.
And this September, I will be returning to Malta on a pilgrimage of remembrance.
Together, we will walk among the temples, swim in her turquoise waters, sit upon her honey-coloured limestone, and listen for the whispers of an ancient wisdom that has been waiting, perhaps all along, for us to return.
Will you join me?