Musings from the Road: Trying to Find My People (and Not Lose My Mind)
Traveling for work has its moments of magic—the landscapes, the solitude, the quiet freedom of the open road—but I won’t lie, it can also be bone-deep lonely.
I’ve been on the road for a while now, moving through towns both bustling and barely-there, trying to keep my spirit nourished while chasing down paperwork, meeting deadlines, and living out of hotel rooms more often than I care to admit. And while I can always find solace in a riverbend, an herb sprouting wild in a ditch, or the moon hanging heavy in a new sky, the human connection? That’s been a lot harder to find.
Meeting new people these days is like trying to crack a safe with a spoon.
Folks in small towns are friendly enough—on the surface. But there's a lingering caution in their eyes like everyone’s waiting to figure out which side of the cultural fault line you stand on before they show you their real face. And I get it. The political climate is tense. People have been burned. Trust is a fragile, battered thing. But that doesn’t make it any less isolating when you’re just a woman trying to find a familiar smile in a strange place.
And in the cities? Whew. That’s a different beast entirely.
You show up to a witchy event or a spiritual meetup—open-hearted, hopeful, maybe a little awkward—and suddenly you’re surrounded by 20-somethings in velvet and eyeliner, giving you that sideways look. Like you’ve never cast a circle or called down the moon in your life. Like your age, your laugh lines, your plain hoodie, or your “suburban” energy disqualify you from the Craft entirely.
It’s wild to be talked to like a beginner when you've got years of ash under your fingernails and altar smoke still clinging to your skin. To be spoken at like you're someone’s aunt who just discovered essential oils, when really you’ve held sacred space longer than some of these folks have been alive. I didn’t stumble into witchcraft because it was cute on Instagram—I survived with it. I breathed through loss, through transformation, through generations of ancestral pain and ecstatic joy because of it.
By the fucking Gods, I clawed my way through the late 80s when there was no internet just to find little seeds of hope and information in out-of-the-way places. I survived the 90s by being close to a larger city where the community was a COMMUNITY. I got so involved in the 2000s that I won awards, spoke at events, and taught classes in the community and in college!
But that doesn’t always show on the outside, I guess. Not when you look like someone’s mom(or, yeah, grandma) in the produce aisle. Not when you carry your power a little quieter these days. Not when your witchcraft doesn’t come with theatrics or a curated aesthetic. Not when you don't skip around squealing, "I'm such a "baby witch."
I miss my people - my circle, my sacred misfits. The ones who knew how deep my roots ran without needing a bio or a vibe check. The ones who didn’t ask for proof. They just felt it. Those who have seen it in action and those who have seen me quiet a crowd of hundreds with a single word.
And maybe that’s the most challenging part about working in a career field that keeps you away from your home for long periods. You start to wonder if you’ll ever find that again. Not just connection—but recognition. Someone looking at you and seeing you. Not the outfit. Not the gray in your hair or the miles under your eyes. But you—the whole wild, magical, messy self you’ve become.
So yeah, I keep showing up. I go to the events. I make small talk. I watch the moon rise in unfamiliar skies and whisper to the wind, hoping it carries a bit of me toward someone who understands.
Maybe you’re reading this and nodding. Maybe you’ve felt it too—that ache for connection in a world where everyone’s either hiding or judging. If you are, just know: I see you. I believe in the quiet witches, the tired ones, the ones who don’t always “look the part.” You are sacred. You are real. And you are not alone.
Not out here. Not ever.
I’m not writing this to feel sorry for myself. Honestly, I’m not. I’m too seasoned, too rooted, and too damn aware of my own magic to spiral into a pity party. This isn’t about loneliness for the sake of wallowing—this is about acknowledgment. About naming something real so others out there don’t feel like they’re the only ones drifting through this moment in history with hearts wide open and nowhere to land. Because I know I’m not alone. There are so many of us—witches, wanderers, healers, seekers—out there doing the quiet work, lighting our candles in solitude, hoping to feel less like islands and more like a constellation.
In this day and age, when the world feels more divided and suspicious than ever, finding each other can feel like threading a needle in the dark. But I believe we’re meant to. I believe in the pull between kindreds. I believe that if we speak honestly, show up authentically, and stop waiting to be invited into the community, we’ll start finding those soul-level connections again. It is not curated, not performative, and just real. Because the world needs us to find each other. Not for validation but for remembrance. To hold space. To share strength. To say, "I see you," and mean it. And that, more than anything, keeps me going.
🖤🌕
Safe travels, fellow wanderer. Let’s keep finding each other—even if it’s just in these words for now.
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