#SarkLives

In the course of my many years of searching—though interspersed with breaks—into the realm of Egyptology and the nature of the netjeru, I have repeatedly encountered moments of profound reflection. On my altar today stand the figures of Thoth (Djehuty), Bast, and Set. I might sound like a hypocrite, then, pointing out the particular interest many modern Kemetics have in the most recognizable deities of the pantheon. There is, of course, nothing wrong with that—these powerful figures draw us in with their brilliance, strength, and clear presence. However, the closer I came to understanding the nature of the gods, their energy, and trying to give them a hidden meaning—striving to cultivate Ma’at and Heka in the 21st century—the more I looked elsewhere.

We live in an era of great turbulence; we face ecological disasters, humanitarian crises, growing inequalities, and a paralyzing uncertainty about tomorrow. As I reflected more deeply, and even immersed myself in literature about Ancient Egypt, a figure whose nature has remained in the shadows for centuries kept returning to me: Nephthys (Nebet-Het). Attempting to understand her was never easy, as even in many books where her name appeared, she was rarely described beyond a few words. I was often haunted by the question: "What about her?"

The Silence of the Greeks and the Trap of Definition

The fact that the Ancient Greeks, while performing their systematic interpretation of the Egyptian pantheon (interpretatio graeca), almost completely omitted Nephthys remains a mystery to me to this day. Why was a deity of such fundamental importance to the Osirian myth pushed to the margins? Perhaps the reason lies in the very nature of Greek polytheism, which, despite its tragic elements, was deeply rooted in the affirmation of life and the light of the sun.

Although the name Nebet-Het literally means "Mistress of the House," she was far from being the Greek Hestia. Hestia represents the warmth of the domestic hearth, the center of family life, heartiness, and the security of walls. Nephthys, by contrast, is the house in a state of mourning. It is the house where the mirrors are covered and where silence reigns after the departure of a loved one.

While Osiris (Ausir) became Dionysus or Hades to the Greeks, Set (Setesh) became the terrible Typhon, Horus (Heru) the luminous Apollo, and Anubis (Anpu) a specific hybrid of Hermes and Thanatos, Nephthys found no simple counterpart. Even her sister, Isis (Aset), was so powerful and multidimensional—combining traits of Selene, Demeter, Athena, and Aphrodite—that the Greeks integrated her into their pantheon without forced substitution. Isis presented what was clear, life-giving, and magically effective to the Greeks. Nephthys, however, accompanied the stages of grief, transition, and the "hidden." She was the goddess of what happens behind the veil, in a space that the Greeks, lovers of rhetoric and form, perhaps feared to touch without clear necessity. Thus, Nebet-Het did not enter the mainstream, remaining "the other," the nearly invisible companion.

The Cultural Dominance of Anubis

I often notice that much of what modern practitioners associate with the cult of Anpu actually lies within the domain of his mother. This is not an accusation against practitioners or a devaluation of their cult, but merely a small observation regarding the dynamics of energy. Anpu is recognizable—the jackal head, gold contrasting with black, the role of the embalmer and guide of souls build an incredibly strong, "dark" image that is easy to adapt onto a t-shirt or a tattoo. It is an aesthetic that perfectly hits the taste of modern man—it is dark yet elegant, effective, and ritualistic.

I believe that 19th-century Egyptologists and Egyptomaniacs are partly responsible for this state of affairs. They were more inclined to look for active male deities in the pantheon, relegating female deities to passive roles. After all, the head of a wild dog stirs more enthusiasm than the figure of a woman with a hieroglyph on her head.

And yet, if we look deeper at the netjeru through the prism of Ma’at, we see that without Nephthys, the figure of Anubis loses its foundation. Anubis may deal with embalming, but it is Nephthys who watches over the process of transformation. He weighs hearts, but she prepares the soul for the moment of truth. To ignore the mother while working with the son is like looking at a building and ignoring the foundations upon which it stands. Goddesses like Nephthys do not need a spectacular form to be present; she is the very essence of the transition itself.

Dualism: Isis and Her Shadow

Before expanding on the connection between Nephthys and Anubis, I want to share one more reflection. If we view the netjeru not as individual "persons" but as manifestations of deep Ma’at, we notice a fascinating dualism. It isn’t just the struggle between Set and Horus or the dualism of Bastet and Sekhmet. The most subtle division is the one occurring between Isis and Nephthys.

Isis and Nephthys are two sides of the same coin. Isis represents the light, the life, that which is overt, visible, and known in the sun. She is what stands before us, before our eyes that see the external world. Nephthys, however, is her shadow—the silent presence that always stands behind our backs.

We can try to look at her face, but she will always be one step behind our gaze. It is a beautiful and painful metaphor: we can see our hands and torso, but we cannot see our own backs at the same time. We see the world, yet we fail to see ourselves in the act of seeing. If we search for treasures deep underground, the moment we find them and bring them to the surface, they cease to be part of Nephthys's domain—they become part of the kingdom of Isis. Every solved mystery is a triumph for Isis. But the silence, the uncertainty, the hesitation, and the question itself hanging in the void—that is the kingdom of Nephthys.

When we discover a painful truth (Isis's domain) and feel a deep emptiness after that discovery, it is Nephthys who stays with us. When we walk through the darkness with a flashlight, Isis is the light that tears a piece of reality from the gloom. But in the blackness itself, where the light does not reach, Nebet-Het keeps watch. Not to frighten us, but to be with us in our helplessness. She does not dissipate the darkness—she teaches us how to breathe in it.

The Psychology of Loss and Mourning for Oneself

Nephthys is the goddess of liminal spaces—the thresholds where we stand, no longer belonging to the old world but not yet part of the new. In a therapeutic context, Anubis is like a skilled surgeon or doctor who can "stitch us up" and organize our daily lives. But Nephthys is the caring nurse who watches by the bed when no medicine can soothe the pain of the soul.

She leads us through the stages of grief, and her particular domain seems to be the last and most difficult one: acceptance. This is not always a joyful reconciliation with fate. It is the painful realization that "not everything can be fixed."

I write this as a person who, at the age of 31, received an ADHD diagnosis after a previous diagnosis of autism. My grief is specific—it is a mourning for myself, for the person I could have been if I had only known that I had ADHD alongside autism. In this process, Anpu can give me the tools: medications, therapies, organizational techniques, and the reminder that "it's not your fault, it's your neurology."

But it is Nephthys who places a hand on my shoulder when I cry over my wasted past. She doesn’t say "everything will be fine." She says: "Yes, you lost those years. It hurts, and you have the right to feel this tearing grief. We cannot turn back time." Reconciling with the fact that some things are irreversible is agonizingly difficult, but it is there, in that darkness, that Nephthys is most powerful. It is a handshake with one's own shadow.

Nephthys and Hecate: Goddesses of the Margin

Ultimately, if I were to find a counterpart for Nephthys in other systems, I would point to Hecate. It is she, rather than Isis, who shares the most traits with Nebet-Het. The magic of both these goddesses is born of pain, night, and darkness. Both are mistresses of the "in-between," guardians of thresholds and crossroads. Both accompanied other goddesses in their moments of greatest despair.

They do not promise spectacular healing or a return to former "glory." They do, however, promise that in the blackest night, before we see even the thinnest silver sliver of the new moon, someone will be with us. Nephthys reminds us that even when we feel broken, "spoiled," or cast to the margins, her arms remain open.