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Inexplicable Things Apothecary

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Born under a cursed moon and raised among gators and gossip, Mama Sha’ has been stirring pots—both literal and metaphorical—for over 45 years. This ain’t your grandma’s apothecary—unless she hexed exes for fun and kept bones in labeled jars. Now, over the age of 50, Mama Sha’ is tired of the frilly nonsense. She’s thrown in the towel – on shiny spell jars, mass-produced “intention kits” and TikTok witches spewing out bad advice and who think magic is just lighting a candle while duck-lip pouting into their cell phone for clicks. She’s not here for the influencer alchemy or quartz-drenched nonsense blessed by algorithms and sold with a selfie, the endless parades of crystal-infused moonwater that couldn’t hex its way out of a paper bag. Mama Sha’ needs grit, not glitter. Power, not Pinterest. She has spent years building her craft with bones, fire and actual consequences. She has leaned hard into the grit, the grime, and the glory of true swamp witchery. Her hands know herbs, her boots know mud, and her mouth knows curses sharp enough to slice through generational trauma. Crystals are fine, but she prefers tools that bite back—rusted nails, crawfish mud, black salt, and the kind of herbs that get you side-eyed at TSA. She don’t cast for aesthetics. She casts for results. This isn’t a vibe. It’s a vow. If you’re looking for pastel spells and glitter jars, turn back now. But if you crave botanical vengeance and handcrafted wrath, welcome home. So buckle up, buttercups! Let’s do this!

In Praise of Chaos: A Devotion to Angrboda, Mother of Monsters

Some folks like their gods tidy.

All order, light, and perfectly-posed divinity. But me? I honor the ones with blood under their nails and fire in their bones. The ones who aren’t afraid to tear it all down if it means birthing something that actually matters.

Angrboda is one of those gods.

She’s not soft. She’s not polite. She’s not here to make you feel better about the wreckage in your life. She is the wreckage. She is the root of necessary destruction—the mother of what’s been cast aside and misunderstood. She is the Mother of Monsters, and she is exactly what this world needs.

We live in a time obsessed with control. Order. Perfection. Curation. And yet—nothing truly grows from perfection. Chaos is the womb of transformation. And Angrboda? She is that womb. The wild root. The bloodline. The fierce, primal love that doesn’t coddle you—it devours what no longer serves.

Her name means “the one who brings grief.” And yeah, that makes people uncomfortable. But growth doesn’t happen without grief. Evolution doesn’t happen without endings. She births Fenrir, the wolf who will swallow the sun. Jormungandr, the world serpent who circles and ends the cycle. Hel, the ruler of the dead who offers stillness and silence. These aren’t just monsters—they are necessary endings.

Angrboda reminds us that monsters aren’t evil. They’re born when the world ignores what needs to be faced. She reminds us that chaos isn’t bad—it’s how we move forward. The moment we stop fearing destruction, we start honoring change.

I am a daughter of Angrboda. She has been my patron since I was a little girl. Chaos is my middle name. And if you’ve seen my videos—you already know. No protective circle when I work, no perfect altar layout. I never have all the herbs in one place. I’m always forgetting something, knocking things over, laughing while the spell still works anyway. That is her energy. It’s not sloppy—it’s raw. It’s real. It’s perfect for me.

She doesn’t ask for perfection. She asks for truth. And if you follow her, wonderful. Live your life according to her tenets—own your chaos, protect your wild, honor your shadow. But if you turn your back on yourself? If you abandon your own monstrous beauty for the comfort of conformity? She’s done. Don’t bother calling on her again. She’s not the type to come back.

And no—she doesn’t want you on bended knee. That’s not her. That’s not any of the Norse gods. These weren’t distant deities—they were once believed to walk among us. Not to be worshipped like untouchable beings, but to be honored like ancestors, elders, kin.

What do they ask of us? Honor those who came before. Honor the land. Honor the land wights and the critters. Honor yourself. Honor your family. Don’t grovel—remember. Don’t beg—live with purpose.

Now look, I know a lot of Norse reconstructionists don’t consider Angrboda a goddess. They call her a primordial force. A figure. A footnote. But to me? To ignore her is to turn your back on the roots of this entire damn tree. Call her a goddess, call her a force, call her a jötunn, call her what you want—just don’t be foolish enough to pretend she doesn’t matter. She is the deep taproot of grief and transformation. She is the first scream in the forest. And She fucking matters.

When I work with her, I don’t ask for comfort. I ask for truth. For strength. For the courage to face what’s breaking—and to break it faster if it needs to fall. I light my Ironwood Flame candle, and I let the smoke rise like a signal in the dark: I remember you, Mother. I remember what you gave us. I honor what you will tear down next.

We need more of her in this world. We need less fluff and more fury. Less curated perfection and more sacred mess. If you’ve felt the call of something wild, raw, and untamed inside you—that’s her. That’s the Ironwood whispering. That’s the monster waking up.

So light the candle. Say her name. And don’t flinch when she answers. She’s not coming to save you.

She’s coming to show you how to save yourself.

If you wish to learn more about how to work with or honor Angrboda, or any of the Norse gods/goddesses, please feel free to reach out to us. We offer a variety of classes, free videos, and magical supplies to help you on your path – including working with the Norse pantheon.

Check us out at www.inexplicablethings.com

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