Sheltered by Shadows: A Journey of Reclamation
A Reflection on Growth, Identity, and Ancestral Truths
The Ghillie Dhu—a spirit of the birchwoods, cloaked in moss and mystery—has long been portrayed as a “dark-haired lad” or a male guardian of the forests of Northwestern Scotland. This interpretation, however, is a reflection of how outsiders to Gaelic culture translated its name. They rendered “gille” as “lad” or “youth” and “dubh” as “dark” or “dark-haired,” imposing their frameworks of understanding on something far richer and more fluid. In doing so, they confined the Ghillie Dhu within boundaries it was never meant to inhabit.
Colonialism did not stop at conquering land—it sought to conquer meaning. Through the cataloguing of Gaelic culture, our stories, language, and spiritual traditions were reshaped, stripped of their nuance, and returned to us in forms that suited the colonisers' sensibilities. What was once complex and deeply tied to the land became simplified and misinterpreted, flattened to fit into patriarchal and anthropomorphic frameworks.
The Ghillie Dhu, like so many of our traditions, was remade in an image palatable to those who did not understand it. But the Ghillie Dhu I know—the one that resonates with my journey—is not confined by these imposed labels. In the Gaelic worldview, beings like the Ghillie Dhu defy strict categories. Their essence is found in their role as protectors, guides, and embodiments of the natural world, not in the human labels of gender or hierarchy.
For me, the Ghillie Dhu is maternal: nurturing yet fierce, a protector of all that grows in shadow. This interpretation is not an invention but a reclamation—a peeling away of colonial assumptions to reveal the truth beneath. To reclaim the Ghillie Dhu is to return to the richness of a worldview where beings are not limited by binaries but defined by their purpose and connection to the land.
The Power of Shadow
The shadows hold a paradox: they are both sanctuary and threat. In these dark times, when forces conspire to drive people like me back into hiding, I have come to understand the layered power of shadow. It is not simply a place of fear, though fear is present; it is also where we prepare, heal, and grow. Shadows conceal, but they also protect. They hold the space for transformation, for becoming.
Before I came out, I did so much of my work in the shadows. I whispered truths to myself in the quiet of night, wrapped in the safety of secrecy, where the light of scrutiny could not yet reach. The shadow was where I tested my courage, where I began to weave the fabric of my identity. In that space, I began to see that shadow does not diminish who we are—it shelters us until we are ready to emerge.
Yet these shadows are not always safe. Today, the world feels heavy with darkness. The forces arrayed against people like me—trans, autistic, outside the bounds of what the world deems acceptable—seek to force us back into hiding, back into silence. They wield shadow as a weapon, a veil to smother and erase.
But we who have lived in shadow know its other face. We know how to see in the dark, to move through it, to find the cracks where light still filters in. And now, those of us who have emerged must act as guardians for those still finding their way. The shadow remains a sanctuary for them, and we must defend it against those who would corrupt its purpose.
I see myself, in some ways, as a Ghillie Dhu—a maternal servant, a protector for those who stumble into these realms of uncertainty and fear. Older now, with a rough past that has taught me both resilience and vigilance, I recognise the importance of standing watch. There is so much to fear, but that fear must not paralyse us. It must become the force that moves us to act, to protect, to guide.
The shadow holds power—power to shelter, to nurture, to conceal what is not yet ready for the light. But it is not a place to remain. It is a threshold, and my role now is to help others cross it, to protect what matters and to ensure that no one walks alone in the dark.
The Joy of Creation
There is such joy in being able to create, to take the swirling patterns of thought and feeling inside me and translate them into words. For decades, I struggled to express myself fully—not for lack of effort, but because the tools seemed just out of reach. Hormone replacement therapy has been nothing short of miraculous in this regard. It has rewired my brain, unlocking pathways that allow me to communicate with a clarity and depth I never thought possible.
The ability to write poetry feels like a gift, one that I cherish deeply. I often reflect on how much this time and place have given me—opportunities and possibilities that weren’t available in my youth. Back then, I could only dream of expressing myself in ways that felt authentic and whole. Now, I have not only the voice but also the platform to share it.
Sharing my poetry—whether as part of my collection or through individual pieces on AutSide—is an act of connection. Each poem is a bridge, an offering to others who might see themselves in my words or feel inspired to create their own. The piece that follows, “Sheltered by Shadows,” represents this joy: the joy of creation, of transformation, and of stepping into the light with something to share. It is a celebration of the journey, the power of growth, and the beauty that emerges when we honour our truths.
Sheltered by Shadows
In the birchwood’s cradle,
where shadows knit their shelter
and light treads softly,
I hid—
wrapped in moss,
tender as the roots
that cling to unseen earth.
She was there,
waiting in the stillness of myself,
a presence half-formed.
Her whispers reached me
in the rustle of leaves,
in the cool weight of dusk.
”Stay here. It is safe.”
And I did,
for safety is its own kind of warmth.
Yet shadows do not only conceal;
they shelter.
And even in hiding,
there is growth.
Roots stretch deeper.
Leaves unfurl
beneath a canopy of possibility.
But safety whispers, too, of its cost.
The Ghillie murmured,
“To grow, you must leave the shade.”
And her words trembled through me,
a soft pull toward the path
where timidity meets light.
The unknown is not to fear
but to step into,
tender and unguarded.
Each step is a claiming,
a defiance of shadows that once
both protected and confined.
“Protect what matters,” she said,
her voice a veil of leaves,
a mother's promise.
“Begin with yourself.”
And I knew she meant the tender seedling of me,
still half-hidden,
fragile yet fierce in its right to rise.
I carried her strength,
her shelter,
her shadow.
Each step forward
was both shelter and risk,
a letting go of safety,
a reaching for the light.
And now I walk,
unshielded yet unbroken,
roots stretching into unseen soil,
branches daring to meet the sun.
For the shadow still lingers,
not as fear
but as the memory of refuge—
the place I learned to grow.
Final thoughts …
In these troubling times, I find myself turning back to culture for comfort. When the world feels uncertain and hostile, I am drawn to the words and symbols of my ancestors—threads of meaning that anchor me to something larger, something enduring. As my brain rewires itself, untethering old patterns and forging new connections, I seek solace in the language and stories that have been carried through generations.
Yet, in reclaiming these cultural fragments, I cannot ignore the mark of the colonisers who catalogued, distorted, and reshaped them to suit their own narratives. Their interpretations stripped away the richness, flattened the nuance, and left us with a version of our heritage that is as much theirs as it is ours. To find comfort in these symbols, I must also work to remove the stench of colonialism, peeling back the layers imposed upon our stories to reveal what lies beneath.
This act of reclamation is deeply personal, but it is also collective. It is a way of reaching back through time, not just to recover what was taken but to reshape it in ways that reflect who we are now. For me, this means seeing figures like the Ghillie Dhu not through the lens of colonial patriarchy, but as they might have been—a protector, a guide, a being of care and connection that defies simple categorisation.
To reclaim what was taken so long ago is to honour the resilience of my ancestors, who carried these stories forward even as the world around them sought to erase them. It is to recognise my own resilience, as I piece together an identity and a voice forged in the margins. And it is to leave something behind—not untouched, but untamed—for those who come after me, who will seek comfort and inspiration in these same words and symbols.
The journey to reclaim what was lost is not an end in itself; it is a beginning. It is the creation of a space where the past and present meet, where shadows become shelter, and where growth takes root in the light of understanding.