Your Witchy Mother
You bring the mess. I make the spell. You work the magic.
I Come From a Line of Women Who Knew Things.
They just weren't allowed to say so out loud.
My great-grandmother's name was One. AHH-nee. My dad told me she wore a coin bracelet that clinked when she walked. You could hear her coming from down the block.
I thought it was just jewelry.
Now I know it was a ward. A spell. A signal. She lived in New Orleans, walked with spirits, and knew things without being told. But her magic stayed tucked into domesticity. Never spoken of. Never passed down.
Her daughter, my Granny, was different too. Sensitive. Spirit-touched. But in her world there were no names for gifts like that, only pills. She was diagnosed with panic attacks, given Valium, and taught to fear everything she felt.
I could still sense it in her. Underneath the fear, under the tremble in her voice. She had it. She just never got to use it.
The gift moved through my father too, an ordained Baptist preacher of all things. He doesn't claim to be psychic but he calls when I'm thinking of him. Once, when I was thirteen and wanted desperately to leave somewhere I shouldn't have been, he just showed up. "I don't know," he said. "I just felt like you needed me."
Yeah. It moves through him.
And now it moves through me.
But I'm not hiding it. I'm not medicating it. I'm not praying it away.
I'm the first in my line to speak the unspeakable. To be witchy on purpose. To take what they were forced to silence and turn it into something sacred.
The Church Didn't Make Me Spiritual
I grew up in a Focus on the Family household. The James Dobson kind, where discipline meant obedience and respect meant silence. Pride was a sin. Wanting was selfish. Magic was dangerous, especially in the hands of a woman.
So I kept my knowing to myself. A good church girl by day, a quiet mystic who spoke to angels and other beings standing by her bed by night.
Then I converted to Catholicism. Three kids under eight, a lace veil, a diaper bag, and a rosary in my hand. I looked like the perfect devout mother.
What nobody knew was that I wasn't there for theology. I was there for protection. My husband was a drug-addicted abuser and I thought if I prayed hard enough, confessed enough, obeyed enough, God would save us.
What I didn't realize at the time was that I was already doing magic. Those whispered prayers were spells. The candles and incense were rituals. My love of mysticism wasn't about dogma. It was a breadcrumb trail back to the witch I'd always been.
Eventually I walked away. From the church. From the abuse. From the belief that suffering made me holy.
But I didn't leave empty-handed. I took the sacred with me. The fire. The knowing. The rituals that now belong to me.
The church didn't make me spiritual. It reminded me I always was.
Good Friday, 2019
I had just tucked my kids into bed. Everything felt comfortably ordinary.
My fourteen-year-old appeared in my doorway, eyes swollen, shaking from something she'd been carrying too long. She climbed into my bed and whispered over and over: "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."
And then she told me what her stepfather had been doing to her and her sister. For years.
My body turned to stone. My protective rage roared. But she stopped me.
"Please, Mom. Not yet. I don't want to ruin Easter for the little ones."
She was fourteen, carrying trauma she didn't deserve, and still protecting everyone else.
I carried that horror silently through Easter preparations. Forced smiles. Gritted teeth. Watching him. Guarding my daughters. When the police finally came, he didn't deny it. He didn't even question why they were there.
The aftermath was brutal. Courtrooms. Therapy. Suicide attempts. Waves of guilt and grief I couldn't have prepared for.
But something else came through it too. A version of me I hadn't met yet. Fiercely intuitive. Deeply witchy. Done performing for safety that was never real.
It was my anger, that holy maternal rage, that made the decision for me. I couldn't stay and watch my children be harmed one more day.
Both of those men eventually ended up in jail. Which feels poetic, if I'm honest.
They taught me anger made me unlovable. Turns out, anger made me free.
What Life Looks Like Now
I don't wake up to an alarm. I wake up when my body says it's time.
I ease into the morning on my deck, mushroom coffee in hand, listening to the woods wake up. Then I get the kids started on their schoolwork and ask my soul what we're doing today. Sometimes it's YWM. Sometimes it's knitting on the couch while Outlander runs in the background. Sometimes it's the community garden, the library, or managing my dog's anxiety alongside a kid's anxiety alongside HOA paperwork nobody asked for but somebody has to do.
What I have now that I didn't before is hard to put in one word. Peace comes closest. But it's a specific kind of peace. The kind that comes from not having to run anything by anyone. From buying what I want without bracing for consequences. From sleeping in a bed nobody violated. From cooking whatever I feel like without someone making it weird.
There's no angry man in this house. No predator hiding in plain sight. No performance required.
Sovereignty, for me, isn't a concept. It's waking up and doing whatever I want with my one life. It's the most ordinary magic I know.
What I Do Now
I work with women who've already done the work and are still waiting to feel different.
They've done the therapy. The shadow work. The courses. They can explain their own patterns with frightening accuracy. And something specific is still stuck, still circling, still just out of reach.
That's conditioning that lived in the body before they had words for it. The kind that doesn't lift just because you understand it.
I know what that feels like. I lived it for decades.
So here's what I actually do. You come to me with the thing you've been circling and can't name. I see it, and I make you something for it with my own hands. You're the one who casts it. The work is intimate, practical, and rooted at the kitchen table, never the ivory tower. I make the thing. You do the magic.
Start with the Grimoire. It's free, it's practical, and it'll show you how I work better than anything else on this page.
Thanks for stopping by, witch.
May your magic be loud, your rituals hold true, and your field be steady.
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