The Veiled One: Why Our Flourishing Needs the Winter Hag
Who is the Cailleach?
The Cailleach, ancient and veiled, has haunted me at times and cradled me at others. Her frost-bitten touch has brought me to my knees time and again, yet I return to her. Always. I even sought her out in person on the wild Beara Peninsula of Ireland, where she sits, turned to stone at the end of winter waiting for her power to renew.
In Celtic myth, Cailleach means "The Veiled One." She is the Crone, the Winter Queen, and the catalyst of destruction. In a culture that discounts femininity as it ages and distrusts anything that isn't "productive," the Cailleach is often feared. She is seen as a monster to be avoided.
But Beara and her sister crones Cerridwen, Black Annis, even their Slavic cousin Baba Yaga, are not villains. They are the guardians of the threshold, initiators of necessary change. They teach us that for every spring, there must be a winter. And how we approach the Cailleach in her season determines the depth of our spiritual summers.
The hag’s story is etched into the landscape itself, and she calls to us in a handful of ancient myths. The story of Bride and Angus offers wisdom of embracing winter’s chill and accepting the cyclical nature of life.
The Tale of Bride and Angus: A Dance of Frost and Flame
Once, in the first age of the world, the land was not as we know it with its patchwork of valleys and seas, mountains, and sky. Instead, it was a vast and formless ocean. Beneath the waves lay a great millstone, and only the might of nine giant women could turn it. With laughter as wild as the storms, they ground the earth into being, shaping it with their toil. Among them was Beara, the Hag of Winter, who strode northward, her basket spilling the mountains of Scotland in her wake.
Beara claimed the highest peak, Ben Nevis, as her throne. Her single eye, sharp as an eagle’s, saw all, and her hands, rough as bark, wielded a hammer that could carve valleys and shatter spring’s fragile shoots. For she was winter incarnate. Unyielding, bitter, and harsh as the frozen winds. It was she who sought to halt the coming of light, hoping to never end the bitter cold.
Among Beara’s many captives was Bride, a maiden of such beauty and warmth that the snow itself seemed to soften at her presence. Beara scorned her, assigning impossible tasks meant to break her spirit. One winter’s day, she handed Bride a dirty fleece and ordered her to wash it in the mountain’s icy stream until it shone as white as new snow. No matter how long Bride worked, the fleece remained sullied, and her tears fell into the torrent as she labored.
On the third day, an old man appeared, cloaked in frost and shadow. "Why do you cry, child?" he asked.
Bride told him of her plight, and he nodded, taking the fleece in his hands. He shook it once, twice, thrice, and when he returned it, it gleamed with a purity brighter than moonlit snow. "Take this to your mistress," he said, handing her a cluster of snowdrops. "And tell her that the green shoots stir beneath the frost."
Bride brought the fleece and the snowdrops to Beara, who recoiled at the sight of the flowers. She knew then that her reign was waning. Enraged, she mounted her grey wolf and galloped across land and sky, bashing down any sign of spring with her massive hammer.
Far away, on the Green Isle of Summer, Angus Og, the God of Spring and Summer, awoke from a dream of a maiden imprisoned in frost. He spoke to his father, who told him that this maiden was Bride, destined to be his queen. Angus would not wait for spring to take its natural course. With his wand, he borrowed three golden days from August and wove them into February, calming the seas and parting the mists so he could make the journey to Ben Nevis and free his love. Mounted on a white steed, clad in crimson robes, Angus rode to free Bride.
Bride, sensing her savior’s approach, wept tears of joy, and from where they fell, violets as blue as her eyes blossomed on the snow. When Angus reached Ben Nevis, his warmth melted the ice of Beara’s fortress, and he carried Bride into the light. As her feet touched the ground, spring burst forth, flowers bloomed, rivers thawed, and birds sang for her freedom.
The Fae Queen, shimmering like dawn’s first light, emerged to bless their union. She wove a gown of silver and white for Bride, crowned her with a horn of plenty, and named her the Goddess of Spring. Together, Angus and Bride became King and Queen of Summer, their love a beacon of renewal.
But Beara would not yield so easily. Mounted on her grey wolf, she hurled storms and darkness at Angus and Bride, chasing them across the land. Yet, as winter’s hold faltered, her strength ebbed. Weary, she cast her hammer beneath a holly bush and retreated to the Isle of Summer, where she drank from the well of youth and sank into a deep sleep. There, she waited for the cycle to turn again.
Endless Summer and Spiritual Bypassing
I’ve always loved this folktale. Not for the romance, for something deeper. It’s about balance and leaning into those rough places we get lost in. It is there, in times of hardship in the shadows where the seeds of our true growth lie just like plants gather the strength to spread beneath the snow.
In my personal life, the hag is there when my life collapses into chaos. This myth calls me back, a steady drumbeat beneath the noise. It’s been my touchstone, my guide, even the reason I walked away from spiritual circles that preached only “love and light.” I couldn’t abide the cloying sweetness of “look on the bright side” or the easy dismissal of deep pain or mental illness with a platitude about “a walk in the woods.” Trauma and grief do not yield to saccharine remedies. They demand reckoning and respect, not avoidance.
I understand the yearning for summer. That wish to live only in warmth and light, to pretend the shadow doesn’t exist tantalizes. But it’s a lie. Without Beara, there is no Bride. In some tellings, Beara actually is Bride. A simple oneness that casts winter and summer, shadow and light not as opposites but two sides of the same figure in an endless waltz, each meaningless without the other. Each part of the whole.
This story reminds us that life moves in cycles, not straight lines. It speaks to the rhythm of rest and action, of endings that nurture beginnings. Winter may feel merciless, but it is not empty. Beara’s frost strips the land bare, yes, but it is in this bareness that the seeds of renewal are sown. Fallen leaves rot into compost, the earth sleeps beneath its icy blanket, and the soil gathers strength for spring’s bursting green. Without this pause, this decay, there can be no bounty. Crops fail, pests run rampant, and even the strongest roots wither under the strain of endless growth.
The same is true for us. We cannot live only in the bloom of summer. Without winter, our spirits weaken. Without the stillness of shadow, our growth becomes shallow and brittle, quick to snap in the first storm. There is a name for this refusal to face the dark: spiritual bypassing. It’s the insistence on avoiding grief, conflict, and pain, in favor of chasing only light and positivity. But chasing summer alone is folly. Nothing blooms without the cold, messy work of winter. Growth rooted in avoidance is no growth at all; it is a flower planted in dust.
If you are sitting in the deep midwinter of your life, take heart. No matter how fiercely Beara swings her hammer, no matter how hard the frost bites, spring cannot be held at bay. Angus will find Bride and usher in summer. The thaw is inevitable. The flowers will bloom again.
Honor your winters. They are not an ending, but a beginning. Beara’s cold embrace is a promise: that the decay you endure now is what will nourish your future. Sit with the frost, the shadow, and the silence, and savor them. Even in the darkest season, the seeds of your next era of life are taking root, fed by your winter.