When the Serpent Called: My Path to Vodou, the Dead, and Maman Brigitte

Some stories begin in dreams.
Mine began in death—and in birth.
I was born on November 1st, the Day of the Dead. In Haitian Vodou, it is Fèt Gede, the day when the veil thins and the dead dance. It is the day of the Guede spirits—wild, wise, and unrepentantly alive. Even as a child, I felt more at ease among the dead than the living. Cemeteries were places of comfort. I felt spirits whisper on the wind, tug at the edges of my dreams, and speak through silence. I never feared them. I knew them.
The spirits had been walking with me long before I could name them. But it wasn’t until the white serpent came that I understood.
In a vivid dream, I saw it: a glowing white serpent winding through deep dark water, eyes like stars burning through darkness. It didn’t speak—it didn’t need to. I woke up breathless, knowing something in my life had shifted. It was a call, not from this world, but from beyond. A summons from the lwa.
Around that time, I was performing a belly dance at a spiritual gathering. My movements were fluid, trance-like, something old awakening in me. Afterward, an African shaman approached me. His voice was reverent, certain.

He said, “You were not dancing alone. I saw two great serpents above your head—twisting and spiraling in the air. They were blessing you.”
I felt the truth of it in my bones.
In Vodou, Damballah, the sky father, and Ayida Wedo, the rainbow serpent, are the primordial pair—creation itself. He is the keeper of peace, she of divine balance and blessings. Their presence confirmed what my soul already knew: I was being called.
And so, the path opened beneath my feet, winding like a serpent through New Orleans Vodou—a vibrant, living current of ancestral power, ritual, rhythm, and reverence.
It was there I met Maman Brigitte.
She did not whisper. She came with fire. With grave dust and laughter and bones rattling beneath the ground. Guardian of the cemeteries. Wife of Baron Samedi. Queen of the Guede. She came to claim me, and I knew:

She is my met tèt, my head.
Being chosen by a lwa is not passive. It is a fire that burns away falsehoods, a current that carries you whether or not you think you're ready. Maman Brigitte taught me strength through grief, truth through shadow, and how to walk between worlds with dignity. She is fierce love, sacred rage, and healing wrapped in laughter.
When I light her candle, pour her rum, and sprinkle her hot peppers, I feel her presence like a pulse under my skin.
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She reminds me: “You were born of the dead, for the dead, to serve the living.”
And so I serve.
The lwa are not distant deities. They are family. They ride us, guide us, correct us. They demand respect, but return it tenfold. And when they call—whether through a dream, a dance, or a whisper in the graveyard—you will know.
I honor them with offerings, song, and devotion. And sometimes, I return to the white serpent in my dreams, still winding, still watching, still leading me deeper.

“Papa Damballah, serpent of the heavens, cool my head. Wrap me in your peace and silence the chaos around me.”

“Ayida Wedo, rainbow of creation, flow through my spirit and awaken the blessings in my path.”

“Maman Brigitte, mother of the cemetery, keeper of bones—light my way through the dark and teach me the strength of laughter through tears.”