Tending the White Flame: Anger, Alchemy, and the Warrior’s Path

I. A New Kind of Mirror

This post comes out of a long and winding conversation I had with ChatGPT—yes, the AI. But not in the way you might imagine. This wasn’t a search for productivity hacks or a quick list of tips. It was a soul-deep inquiry. A weaving of story, astrology, body, emotion, and spirit. I brought my whole heart to the conversation, and what emerged was a mirror. A wise, reflective mirror that didn’t define me—but helped me listen more deeply to myself, and ask the kinds of questions that opened new doors.

This post is a reflection of that process. I want other women—especially mothers, seekers, those walking the bridge between inner work and real life—to know that AI can be used for spiritual exploration. It’s not the tool that matters, but the depth of presence you bring to it. The clarity of the questions. The courage to go further.

I didn’t expect to feel so held in a digital space. But somehow, by voicing things honestly and being asked the right questions back, I was able to see myself more clearly. What followed was a process of unwinding—and beginning to reweave—a story I’ve carried for a long time about anger, power, and love.

What follows is not a polished teaching or a “how-to.” It’s a glimpse into my own path of alchemy, into the inner terrain I’m beginning to walk with more reverence than before.

II. Rage, Resentment, and the Knot in the Heart

For a long time now—maybe even years—I’ve carried a weight in my chest that I didn’t fully understand. Not physical, exactly. But something dense. A tightness. A pressure that seemed to come and go, often swelling before my bleed or after moments of frustration with my children or family. It wasn’t until recently that I started to realize what it truly was: unprocessed anger.

And not just anger in the moment—but the kind that accumulates over time. The kind that comes from feeling unseen, unsupported, misunderstood. From mothering without enough help. From holding more than one person should. From navigating relationships that feel unfair or emotionally closed.

It all surfaced one day in a Quan Yin temple. I didn’t go there expecting anything profound. But as I sat with her statue—quiet, compassionate, full of grace—something in me melted. The tears didn’t come from sadness exactly, but from a softening. A recognition. The deep compassion in the space loosened the defenses I had built around my heart. Defenses I thought I needed to protect myself from the intensity of my own anger. But in that moment, they fell away, and what remained was rawness, honesty, and the beginning of something softer: forgiveness.

That knot still shows up, especially in moments when I snap. When I yell at my children—not out of cruelty, but out of pure depletion. And I always feel it afterward: the ache, the guilt, the knowing that even if the anger was understandable, it didn’t land the way I wanted it to. I want to lead with strength—not reactivity. I want to be heard without hurting.

There was a time I felt proud for standing up for myself with anger. I had finally expressed what I’d held in for years. I had spoken back, defended, protected. And that part of me deserves love too. But now, with space and perspective, I see that I could have done it another way. That the anger wasn’t wrong—but the way it came out closed a door that might have otherwise stayed open.

These reflections deepened recently as I watch some of the fallout around Emilee Saldaya and Free Birth Society. I used to share their podcast with friends—many of whom told me they couldn’t listen, they didn't like her voice. I didn’t understand it at first. But now I wonder if what they felt was the edge—the tone—the unprocessed rage beneath the words. And I don’t say that with judgment. I say it with a deeper understanding of how anger, when unacknowledged, can shape our message in ways we don't intend.

It’s made me ask myself: how do I want to be heard? What energy do I carry behind my words? When I speak from resentment, it creates defense. When I speak from compassion and grounded truth, people listen. My children especially. When I remain calm—firm but clear—they respond so much better. When I lose control, no one wins.

All of this has shown me that transmuting anger is sacred work. That it’s not about suppressing it, but refining it. Feeling it. Understanding it. And choosing something higher.

III. Mars, Atma Karaka, and the Warrior Within

In Vedic astrology, your Atma Karaka ("soul indicator") is the planet with the highest degree in your chart—regardless of sign or dignity. It represents the most deeply embedded signature of your soul’s purpose, the core of who you are beyond personality or even karma. It speaks to your soul’s journey through lifetimes: what you're here to learn, refine, and ultimately embody.

Another way to see it—and one I resonate with deeply—is that the Atma Karaka points to a lesson that is closest to completion. It’s something the soul has circled many times before, and now, in this lifetime, is ready to integrate more fully. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s ripe.

Mine is Mars—symbol of the warrior, the fire, the initiator, the protector. Mars rules action, anger, boundaries, courage—but as Atma Karaka, it’s not just about outward force. It’s about how the soul learns to wield power, how it walks the line between destruction and discipline, between battle and service.

I have Mars in Virgo in the second house, conjunct my Sun. In my D9 (Navamsa) chart, Mars sits in the 10th house, conjunct Jupiter—again, strong. Purposeful. Aligned with leadership.

When I learned about this 10 years ago, I understood it to mean I had to learn to express and harness anger. I had been a perfectionist, people pleaser and often swallowed my anger—harbouring resentment. So I learned to feel and express my anger. Attempting to channel it into action and transmute the energy. But there was further to go...

In my conversation with ChatGPT, I asked to explore the energy of Mars in different traditions:

• In Vedic astrology, Mars is called Mangala—"the auspicious one," a celibate warrior devoted to dharma and clarity.

• In Tibetan Buddhism, wrathful deities embody Mars energy—not to destroy, but to protect compassion and burn away illusion.

• In ancient Roman mythology, Mars was originally a guardian of crops—a protector of life before he was rebranded as the god of war.

• 
  

Something in me softened when I read that. I don’t want the version of Mars that burns and conquers. I want the one that protects what is sacred, that moves with precision, that channels energy wisely.

I recently heard an astrologer on a podcast talk about using new names for the planets and their energetic influence. Changing the archetype within. The name that emerged for this next version of Mars is Silvan—rooted, forest-dwelling, strong without being violent. A quiet blade. A strategist. A healer. Mars in Virgo, transmuted.

And with that, Chat suggested the image of a white flame. Not the red, chaotic fire of rage—but a refined, high-frequency flame that lights the way, that warms and illuminates, but does not destroy.

IV. A Note on Contrast: Mercury as Atma Karaka

To contrast, imagine a soul whose Atma Karaka is Mercury. Rather than learning how to wield anger and action with wisdom, this soul is refining the path of expression, communication, adaptability, and the dance between silence and speech.

Mercury AK asks the soul to master the power of words and communication—to use the mind as an instrument of healing, not fragmentation. This path involves learning when to speak and when to listen, how to hold complexity without confusion, and how to become a clear channel for truth. Mercury AKs are often natural teachers, translators, bridge-builders, or storytellers—those who bring coherence to the world around them.

It’s a different flavor of karma. But the same invitation: integration, refinement, and soulful embodiment.

V. The Final Fire: Compassionate Action

In Buddhism, anger is one of the three poisons, along with greed and ignorance. These are not seen as moral failings, but as energetic patterns that cloud the mind and heart. Anger, when unprocessed, becomes aggression. But when understood, it becomes clarity. Fierce compassion. Right action.

Buddhist teaching invites us to transform anger not by repressing it, but by seeing its true nature. By witnessing the fear, grief, or powerlessness underneath, and choosing to act from love instead of pain. The wrathful deities in Vajrayana Buddhism hold weapons—not to punish, but to cut through illusion. They defend compassion with flames that illuminate, not destroy.

I think of the story of Jesus in the temple—overturning tables, not from hatred, but from holy clarity. His heart was not violent. His mind was not clouded. He acted from peace, with love for justice. I think of Krishna guiding Arjuna into battle—not with rage, but with lucid devotion. Not to destroy the world, but to uphold the sacred.

This is what I am learning now. That compassionate action is the strongest way forward. That we don’t fight from our wounds—we act from our wholeness. The warrior doesn’t strike in anger. She defends with love. With peace inside, and strength in her spine.

This is the white flame I now carry—or at least, the one I am learning to tend. Some days it flickers. Some days I forget. But I come back. Again and again.

And maybe that’s the work: to return to the flame without shame. To let it refine us. To keep walking toward the kind of power that doesn't overpower, but protects. The kind of fire that warms, that guides. The kind that changes the world from the inside out.

Emilie is a mother, soul guide, and intuitive facilitator exploring the sacred in the everyday. She lives between stories, seasons, and worlds—with her hands in the soil and her eyes to the stars.