What Ails You, My Love?

Prescribing medicine for the soul as a Myth Pharmacist

If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is a bit of a cross-genre essay around writing, creativity, and life.

There’s a version of me that lives in the woods. Or maybe she’s just an echo, a projection, a future self I glimpse in the mirror of my dreams. Her hair glints silver under the moonlight, her fingers stained with ash from the fire she tends. She waits there, in her cabin on chicken legs or by a campfire that never dies, her voice warm as she calls to a visitor:

“What ails you, my love?”

The visitor—some stranger—lays their troubles at her feet. She listens, patient as the trees, her gaze piercing but kind. And then, she reaches into her satchel (or is it a cauldron?) and hands them back not a balm, not a tincture, but a story.

“Take this,” she says. “Sit with it. Let it work on you.”

In this vision, the woman has no other agenda other than to help this stranger through the power of story. And in waking life, I find myself circling closer to this version of myself—the myth pharmacist, the weaver of tales meant to heal.

But what does it mean to step into that role?

In the work I do—whether it’s in seminars, writing workshops, or my own quiet hours of research—I keep coming back to the idea that stories are more than entertainment or distraction. They’re medicine. They offer frameworks for understanding our pain, mirrors to reflect our hidden selves, and maps to guide us through the wilds of our inner worlds.

This isn’t a new idea, of course. The notion of stories as medicine is as old as the human impulse to gather around the fire and speak. Mythologies, folk tales, and parables have always carried lessons and solace for those willing to listen. But in a world that moves too fast, that prioritizes answers over questions, it feels radical to slow down and ask:

“What ails you, my love?”

In my seminars, I often feel like that version of myself from the vision, sitting with people who have come not for potions or pills, but for stories. They bring their heartbreak, their creative blocks, their disconnection, and together we sift through the myths that might help them make sense of it all.

Sometimes, it’s a classic myth—a tale of Persephone’s descent or Icarus’s fall. Sometimes, it’s a more modern narrative, one pulled from a novel, a film, or even the life of someone in the room. The magic lies not in the story itself but in the act of giving it as a prescription, an invitation to sit with it and let it unfold.

Stepping into this role hasn’t been straightforward. Like the best myths, it’s involved its own trials and transformations. There’s a part of me that doubts whether this work is “enough”—whether sitting around imaginary campfires, handing out metaphors and archetypes, can really help people navigate the ache of living.

And yet, over and over, I’ve seen the power of story. I’ve watched someone hear the story of the phoenix and realize they, too, can rise from their own ashes. I’ve seen a creative block crumble when someone reclaims the trickster archetype, learning to play instead of strive. I’ve witnessed tears flow as someone recognizes themselves in Psyche’s journey, the long labor of self-discovery and reunion.

It’s not a cure, not in the way we often think of cures. Stories don’t erase pain or solve problems neatly. But they give us a way to hold our pain, to understand it, to work with it rather than against it. They remind us that we are not alone—that others have walked similar paths, faced similar monsters, and lived to tell the tale.

There’s something deeply human about that question. It acknowledges the wound without rushing to fix it, honors the ache without diminishing it. To ask someone what ails them is to say: “I see you. I hear you. Your pain matters.”

It’s the same question I ask myself, again and again, as I step deeper into this work. What ails me? What stories do I need to hear, to hold, to share? What myths am I still living, and which ones do I need to leave behind?

The silver-haired version of me from the vision doesn’t have all the answers. But she knows which questions to ask. She knows that the right story, offered at the right time, can open a door, spark a fire, or simply remind someone that they’re not alone in the dark.

So here I am, trying to live into that role—not as a guru or a healer, but as a weaver of tales, a keeper of myths, a guide who holds the lantern as others find their way.

If you were to sit at my campfire today, I might hand you back this story. I might tell you:

“Sit with it. Let it work on you. See what it stirs, what it softens, what it sets alight. And when you’re ready, pass it on.”