Rain, Roads & Recalibration

 

🌧️ Rain, Roads & Recalibration: A Witch Finds Herself in the Pacific Northwest

I manifested starting a second chapter in the land of endless gray skies and moss-covered everything—and here I am. The Seattle area, with its misty mornings and wet pine-scented afternoons, wrapped itself around me like a cold, damp blanket I didn’t ask for… and somehow needed.

It’s beautiful here, sure. The kind of beauty that doesn’t shout—it creeps in. Quietly. Through the cracks. Through the fog that settles in your bones. Through the raven calls at dawn and the ferns that seem to grow from every surface, like the Earth herself is trying to reclaim all the concrete one green tendril at a time. There’s an ancient rhythm here. One that demands you slow down and pay attention—but life didn’t get the memo.

Because while I’ve landed in a place that practically begs for introspection and ritual, I’ve also been tossed headfirst into full-time work. The kind of work that doesn’t just fill your hours—it eats them. And it’s not just the hours—it’s the miles. I’m on the road more often than I’m not. Hotels. Rental cars. Gas station coffee. Always moving, always packing, always just a little bit disoriented.

I’ve been out of the hustle for a while—by choice. I carved out a slower life when I could. One filled with soil and silence, tinctures and tea. But now the wheel’s turned, and the hustle is back with a vengeance. And it’s been a weird sort of culture shock—trying to hold onto the parts of me that thrive in stillness while navigating airports and agendas. One minute I’m crafting a balm for grief or reading cards by candlelight, the next I’m muting a Zoom meeting while my GPS is screaming at me to take the next exit.

It’s a lot. And not in the cute, “I’m busy but thriving” way. More like the “I don’t know what day it is and why do I smell like jet fuel and peppermint oil?” kind of way.

But here’s the truth: I’m still here. Still stirring herbs into honey. Still whispering to the trees when I can find a patch of them between meetings. Still lighting candles in hotel bathrooms, calling in protection and patience. Still reminding myself that magic doesn’t only live in quiet forests and still mornings—it also lives in motion. In movement. In becoming. This is MY second act. 

This chapter is chaotic, but it’s not empty. I’m collecting pieces. Testing my roots. Learning to be sacred and scrappy. Trusting that the road—this literal, exhausting road—is part of the path too.

So if you’ve ever felt like you’ve lost track of yourself between GPS directions and grocery receipts, you’re not alone. If you’re trying to find moments of magic in the in-between—welcome. I’m right there with you. Just a witch with a travel mug, a tired soul, and a suitcase full of rosemary and resilience.

Let’s see where this leads.