The Man and His Serpent
This is a story I have kept private—shared only with my wife, Doreen, and our daughter, Deborah. It arose from a moment of painful clarity, and from a lifelong journey with questions about power, control, and the kind of love that endures.
They both told me it should be shared. I have held off until now—not out of shame, but out of a deep desire to get it right.
I offer it here not as an argument, nor as a moral lesson, but as a parable for those who have felt the cost of inherited ways of being—and the possibility of letting them go.
If it finds you in a tender place, I hope it leaves you not with blame, but with breath.
—Terry
The Man and His Serpent
There once was a man who walked with a serpent coiled around his heart. The serpent whispered to him, seething words of control and command. Over time, the man came to believe that it was the serpent’s strength that gave him power over his world. He could feel its heat rising in his chest whenever he felt others slipping out of his grasp—when they didn’t do as he wanted, or when life spun beyond his control.
The serpent’s bite was always sharp, and it often lashed out before the man could stop it. Those around him—his wife, his children, friends and colleagues—would recoil when it struck. But the man justified it. He believed that the serpent’s control kept things in order, kept people from crossing boundaries. Though they feared him, he thought this fear would protect them and himself from chaos.
But the man’s beloved daughter saw what the serpent truly was. She had felt its bite too many times, though she never spoke of the pain. She noticed how the serpent twisted her father’s mind, how its coils constricted him, isolating him from those he loved. She watched as the serpent made him believe he was defending his kingdom, when in truth, it was the serpent ruling over him.
One day, when his daughter had grown up and had a family of her own, the man unleashed the serpent once too often. But this time, his daughter did not back down. With great determination and courage, she stood her ground and faced the serpent head-on. The serpent hissed and writhed, its coils tightening as the man’s anger surged. Yet the daughter, armed with the skill she had gained from her own life and work, skills that taught her to recognise and confront such monsters, fought back. She did not cower, but met the serpent’s gaze with steady resolve, determined to slay it once and for all.
The daughter stood firm, though her voice trembled. She spoke of the serpent—calling it out, naming the anger for what it was. The serpent hissed and writhed, and the man felt the familiar heat rising within him. His instinct was to lash out, to let the serpent strike. But even as the venomous words escaped, the daughter did the unthinkable: she faced up to the serpent with an anger of her own.
The serpent shrieked as her hand passed through it, attacking it but simultaneously embracing it with sorrowful compassion. It fought harder to stay alive, but her touch weakened it. As she continued to speak—not of anger, but of love, of uncontrolled emotion and the harm it had caused—it began to wither, its dark coils loosening their grip on the man’s heart.
With a final desperate lash, the serpent died in a flash of smoke, disintegrating into the air. The man felt its absence in his chest, the cold that followed where once there had been heat. For the first time in years, he could breathe freely. But with that breath came a flood of realisation: the serpent had not been his strength. It had poisoned his mind and distanced him from his family, friends and colleagues.
The daughter, exhausted but unhurt, stood before him. In her eyes, he saw the depth of the risk she had taken, the love she had borne to face his wrath. His wife and children, who had feared the serpent’s presence for so long, gathered around. With the serpent gone, their faces shone with a cautious hope.
But the man felt a terrible weight—not the weight of the serpent, but the weight of guilt and shame for having let it rule him. He looked down at his hands, once clenched into fists, now trembling with regret.
The daughter gently touched his arm, and with that touch, he realised something profound: though the serpent had died, its death had not slain him. Instead, it had freed him. He saw the possibility of a new strength—one born not of control and fear but of humility and love. And though the way forward would be hard, he was no longer a prisoner to the serpent’s coils. He could rebuild, not just his relationships, but himself.
In the days that followed, the man began the slow work of healing. The scars from the serpent’s reign would not disappear overnight. He still felt the temptation to call on its former power when moments of frustration arose, but each time, he remembered his daughter’s act of bravery and the peace that had come from releasing control. In time, his family no longer feared his presence, and they too began to heal.
His daughter had saved him, but it was now his turn to save himself. As he worked to rebuild his heart and his relationships, he discovered that the greatest strength of all had been with him all along: the courage to let go of control and embrace the uncertain yet redemptive path of love.
Offered in reverence—for all who carry serpents of their own. 🐍
If this story stirred something in you, I’d be honoured to hear it. You’re welcome to comment, share, or simply sit with it quietly. The pulse is always there, even when the world goes quiet.
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