Mention the name Mary Magdalene today, and you instantly step into a maze of different worlds. To some, she is the penitent follower of the canonical Gospels. To others, the wise spiritual teacher of the apocryphal texts, the beating heart of Provençal legend, or even the internet’s favorite Rose Priestess.

For me, for the longest time… she was nothing at all.

I wasn’t raised religious. When I moved to the South of France years ago, I didn’t know the Golden Legend, nor the folklore that has lived in this landscape for centuries. What stopped me in my tracks from day one was the sheer presence of the Sainte-Baume mountain. That ancient primeval forest. That massive, almost breathing cliff face rising above the land like an ancient open-air temple. The deep quiet, the soil, the raw scent of damp earth and mossy, centuries-old trees.

Around that same time, I took a course on women in art history. Class after class, the reality hit me like a ton of bricks: how many brilliant female artists were systematically erased from history? How many masterworks were handed over to fathers, brothers, or husbands, simply because the world couldn’t handle the idea of a woman creating something powerful on her own?

And then, I started reading about Mary Magdalene.

The pattern was unmistakable, and it hit a nerve. I saw how her life had been rewritten over the centuries, systematically stripped down. An intelligent, powerfull woman reduced to a weeping, repentant sinner. A submissive figure cast as someone who desperately needed a man to save her.

It made me angry. Furious, really.

Because it wasn’t just about her. It was about everything we, as women, still carry in our bones two thousand years later. Those insidious little voices telling us to stay quiet. Not to take up too much room. The dread of being labeled “too emotional,” “hysterical,” or “difficult.” That generational shame draped over our brains, our humor, our sensuality, our raw strength, and our innate power.

Giving Mary Magdalene her voice back is, at its core, giving ourselves our voice back.

With my cookbook THE TASTE OF HER JOURNEY, I had zero interest in putting her on a gold pedestal. I didn’t want an untouchable saint or some airy, esoteric myth. I wanted to bring forward a woman of flesh and blood.

A real human being who felt the things we feel. A woman whose heart was shattered when the love of her life was murdered right before her eyes. A woman forced to run for her life, crossing open waters with terror in her throat, yet refusing to fold under the weight of her grief and rage. Someone who stood her ground anyway, reminding everyone around her of the radical power of love and connection.

Did her bare feet ever actually walk the soil of Provence or take shelter in the cave? Honestly: I don’t care.

The land carries her memory, but her truth isn’t buried in relics or old stones. Her story is universal. It’s about survival, daring to stay tender and soft in a brutal and harsh world, believing in love as a higher energetic and conscious state of being, finding joy and connection around a shared table, and speaking your truth even when the world tries to silence you.

She doesn’t live in a shrine or an old myth. She lives in the courage, the fire, and the voice inside every single one of us.

The Taste of Her Journey

Out on September 20th. Available worldwide on Amazon.