Why I Relate To Snakes-I Am One

Zehara & Veles

I’ve always had a deep connection to snakes. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to their stillness, their mystery, their quiet presence that speaks volumes without a single sound. Like me, snakes are often misunderstood—cast as dangerous, feared, or cold. But beneath that surface lies something far more sacred and complex.
Growing up, I was surrounded by reptiles. My fascination with them wasn’t just about their scales or the way they moved—it was about their energy. There was something ancient and wise in their gaze, something I couldn’t put into words as a child but felt deep in my spirit. At nineteen, I got my first snake: a delicate ribbon snake I named Eden. That name wasn’t accidental. Even then, I intuitively knew that snakes held a key to some deeper spiritual truth—a truth that, like the serpent in the garden, invites us to awaken.
Snakes are quiet creatures. They don’t announce themselves. They observe, they feel, and when they move, it is intentional. That quiet strength resonated with me deeply. I’ve never been one for loud entrances or taking up unnecessary space. I’ve always preferred to feel the room first, to read the energy, to sense what lies beneath the surface. Like the snake, I keep to myself—not out of fear or coldness, but out of deep discernment. There’s power in silence, and snakes know that.
Misunderstood is a word I’ve carried most of my life. People see what they want to see. They project their fears onto you, their assumptions, their own discomfort with what they cannot control or define. Snakes carry that same burden. In many cultures, they’re seen as omens or threats—creatures to kill or avoid. But in truth, they are keepers of ancient wisdom. They teach us to shed what no longer serves, to embrace transformation, to move gracefully through life’s cycles of death and rebirth.
Spiritually, the serpent is a symbol of profound awakening. From the Kundalini energy coiled at the base of the spine, to the ouroboros that swallows its own tail, snakes embody the eternal dance of life, death, and regeneration. They remind us that healing doesn’t always look like light and love—sometimes, it looks like going into the dark, into the stillness, into the places we fear, and learning to breathe there.
When I hold a snake, I feel that energy pulsing through me—ancient, primal, sacred. It’s a communion, a reminder that there is power in being misunderstood, in walking the shadowed path, in moving differently from the rest. Eden, my first snake, taught me that. She was delicate but strong, quiet but wise, and she showed me that it was okay to be all those things too.
So when people ask why I relate to snakes, my answer is simple: because I am one. Not in body, but in spirit. I know what it means to be feared for your power, to be judged for your silence, to be revered and reviled all at once. I know what it means to shed your skin, over and over again, to survive.
And like the snake, I keep going—quietly, purposefully, sacredly—carrying the wisdom of every transformation with me.

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