Don’t Ask a Norse God for Help… They Might Answer
- Matt Stewart
- May 27
- 5 min read
The Day I Asked to See the Truth, and He Showed Me
The Number They Told Me Was Cursed
I’ve always had a weird relationship with the number 13.
Born on a Friday the 13th, I never saw it as unlucky. Quite the opposite—it felt like a secret blessing. Like a backstage pass into the unseen. Most people would raise their eyebrows when I’d share my birthdate, as if I was admitting to being hexed or cursed. But I always smiled. Because I liked being different. I liked that it made people uncomfortable. Something about the number 13 always felt like it belonged to those of us who walk between worlds—those willing to explore what others run from.
So why is 13 seen as unlucky?
Friday the 13th marked the day the Knights Templar were hunted and massacred.
In Christianity, the 13th guest at the Last Supper was Judas—the betrayer.
In Norse mythology, the 13th guest at the feast of the gods was Loki—whose presence led to the death of Baldur, the beloved god of light.
And in numerology, 12 is considered the perfect number—12 months, 12 signs, 12 disciples. But 13? That’s what comes after perfect. It unsettles. It disrupts. It brings chaos.
Mythic Mischief: Loki, the Wild Card
Loki is my favorite mythological mirror.
And no—I’m not talking about the Marvel version with the cheekbones and fan base. I’m talking about mythic Loki—the shapeshifter, the instigator, the one who holds up the mirror and makes you look even when you want to look away.
Some say Loki and Vé may be one and the same—brother of Odin, the All-Father, and Vili. Together, they gave humanity breath, will, and consciousness. Vé is the god who breathed life into the first humans. That’s the version I connect with. The awakener. The one who doesn’t just show you the truth, but dares you to live in it.
He doesn’t destroy for fun. He destroys illusions. He doesn’t punish. He provokes. And when you call on him—you better be ready.
The Night I Asked for the Truth
Two weeks ago to the day I publish this—on the 13th, of course—I sat in meditation and called to him.
It had been a while.
Truthfully, he’s always been there. Like a dark, giddy laughter inside of me that bubbles up when I’m about to have a breakthrough, or when I catch myself mid-bullshit. That laugh isn’t mocking. It’s knowing. It’s the laugh of the Trickster who’s been watching me spin, waiting for me to notice the pattern.
This time, I didn’t ask for clarity. I asked for truth. Not the soft kind. The kind that rips the veil clean off.
The Floodlight on My Shadow
Not with a whisper. Not with a dream. With a goddamn floodlight on my shadow.
He showed me how I’ve let anxious attachment wreck the very relationships I prayed for.
He showed me how overstimulation from other people’s energy, moods, and words hijacks my nervous system—while I still don’t enforce boundaries.
He showed me how my struggles with food were never about food, but about avoidance and the inability to hold myself accountable.
He showed me how I didn’t believe I was worth asking for help, worth growing, worth showing up.
He showed me how I never truly advocated for myself—in love, in business, in the moments that mattered most.I put everyone else’s needs before my own.
And then—he hit me with the one that knocked the wind out of my soul.
When everything I said I wanted was right in front of me… I was the one who wasn’t ready. It wasn’t timing. It wasn’t them. It was me.
After all these years, I finally saw it: I have been the problem.
And in that moment, my world cracked open.
Laughing. Crying. Cursing. Grieving.A highlight reel of every way I’ve abandoned myself for the illusion of control or approval.It was like watching every mask melt off, every story collapse, every survival pattern scream its last breath.
It was my Ragnarök.
The gods of my old self—the patterns, the personas, the protectors—rose up like the Aesir at the end of the world, battling to survive. They fought hard, as they always do. They made me believe this collapse was dangerous. That change meant death. That if I let go… I’d disappear.
But that’s the lie.
Ragnarök isn’t destruction. It’s rebirth. It’s the wild, necessary undoing that clears the space for something real to emerge. And that’s where I’m standing now—in the rubble of everything I thought I was.
Terrified. Liberated. Alive.
Shadow Work Isn’t Sexy
This is the real stuff. Shadow work means turning the spotlight of your conscious mind inward—into the subconscious landscape—to illuminate what’s been hidden, denied, or disowned. It’s not for the faint of heart.
The people who seem externally strong may discover an inner world that’s fragile, avoidant, or afraid. The so-called “nice guys” often find they’re full of repressed rage. And the ones who always keep it together? They realize they’ve been white-knuckling through life just to avoid falling apart.
Shadow work isn’t about fixing what’s broken. It’s about facing what’s buried. Not to shame it—but to integrate it. Because what you don’t face will continue to run your life from the background.
Shadow work isn’t a cute hashtag. It’s not crystals and candles and curated playlists. It’s sitting in the rubble of your illusions and realizing: you built them. And now it’s time to burn them down.
The Hidden Grief Beneath the Growth
Most people don’t avoid growth—they avoid the grief that comes with it.
Because growth isn’t just uncomfortable. It’s grieving. Grieving the identity you outgrew. Grieving the story you told yourself to survive. Grieving the fantasy you clung to in order to feel safe.
Grief isn’t always about death. It’s the relationship you lost. The love you never received. The dream that didn’t manifest. The version of you that had to grow up too fast.
And let me tell you—I’ve lived with a well of grief that dated back to childhood.
I didn’t cry from the time I was 13 until just a few years ago. Not once I wore numbness like armor and mistook it for strength. But all that unreleased emotion? It calcified in my body, in my breath, in my relationships.
And when the dam finally broke, it didn’t come from one moment. it came from all of them.
The back log. The buildup. The boy who never got to cry.
How Grief Lives in the Body
Grief is somatic. It’s physiological. It’s breathless.
It’s the tight chest that won’t expand.
The lump in your throat you can’t swallow.
The ache in your gut that always returns.
We store grief in our fascia. In our nervous system. In our posture and pace.
But we don’t complete the grief cycle. We move on too fast. We slap affirmations over open wounds. We confuse numbing with healing.
But real closure doesn’t come from pretending you’re okay. It comes from honoring what you lost.
Grief as Praise, Loki as the Mirror
Grief is how the body metabolizes change. It’s emotional digestion. It says: “That mattered. That hurt. That shaped me.”
And Loki—he doesn’t just throw chaos around for fun. He breaks the spell. He wakes you up. He forces you to feel what you’ve spent years avoiding.
So if you feel stuck right now—ask yourself:
What haven’t I grieved yet?
What truth am I avoiding because I’m scared of the ache it brings?
That ache is sacred. That ache is the way forward.
And like Loki reminds me—The only way out is still through.
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