"I Burned Sage, Not My Bridges—But I Thought About It"

-

 

 "Sometimes spiritual cleansing smells a lot like smoke from old boundaries going up in flames. A cheeky, honest look at cutting cords without cutting people—unless you absolutely have to."

"I didn’t light that sage because I was feeling peaceful. 

I lit it so I wouldn’t light them up instead."



Let’s get this out of the way: yes, I saged my apartment. Yes, I did it barefoot. And yes, I muttered prayers and curses in the same breath. Because sometimes self-care looks less like a bubble bath and more like a ritual exorcism of everyone who’s ever made your eye twitch. And yes, my sage was ethically sourced right from my own planter boxes last fall. 

And no, I didn't burn bridges. Not technically. But let's just say I had the matches out.

🍃 Energy Matters (Especially When It Sucks)

You don’t have to believe in vibes to know when you’re absorbing someone else’s emotional clutter. That heavy, oily residue of resentment. That sharp sting of passive aggression wrapped in a smile. That slow leak of energy that leaves you needing a nap after a 10-minute conversation.

I used to ignore it. Used to rationalize. "They're just going through something."
But sometimes people are the thing you're going through.

"If someone leaves you drained every time they visit, you don’t need stronger boundaries—you need a quarantine protocol."

🔥 Cord Cutting with a Side of Sass

There comes a point where you stop asking, "Is it me?" and start asking, "Why am I letting them stay rent-free in my head?"

So I saged. I journaled. I screamed into pillows. I blocked. I blessed and released. And yes, I considered a few petty drive-by subtweets. Growth is nonlinear.

I didn’t want revenge. I wanted relief. I wanted to stop rehearsing arguments in the shower. To stop crafting the perfect text I’d never send. To stop hoping they’d change and start changing the channel myself.

"You can forgive someone and still never let them in your house again. Including energetically."

💖 Healing Isn’t Always Zen. Sometimes It’s Spite-Laced Clarity.

There’s this myth that healing is serene. That you’re supposed to float away on a cloud of rose quartz and lavender oil. But real healing? It’s gritty. It’s ugly crying. It’s breaking your own heart by facing your patterns.

And yes, sometimes it’s done with a smirk and a middle finger raised (symbolically, of course).

You don’t have to burn every bridge. But if one goes up in smoke while you’re clearing the air? Maybe it was made of the wrong damn wood.

"I saged to clear the energy. If they got smoked out in the process, that’s between them and the universe."

Related Posts

"Cleansing doesn’t mean erasing. It means reclaiming your space, your spirit, your story. With fire, if necessary."

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

🔥 The Torchbearers: A Call to the Witches Who Stayed

-
Image
  This isn’t for the trend-chasers. This isn’t for the moon-phase influencers, the aesthetic covens, or the ones who skimmed a Llewellyn book and declared themselves a High Priestess on Tuesday. This is for the ones who stayed . The witches who ran public rituals and built community spaces on shoestring budgets. The ones who got their degrees in theology, anthropology, history—anything to understand the bones of what we do. The ones who studied by candlelight, held circles in basements and backyards, and never once filmed themselves doing it for clout. You know who you are. You’ve been looked down on for not dressing the part. For stepping outside in jeans and a t-shirt instead of flowing robes and Instagram filters. For walking through metaphysical shops and not needing to announce your power—because it lives in your bones. You’ve had fifteen-year-olds talk over you on social media, dismissing your decades of practice because they watched a tarot video or learned abo...
Read more

The Apartment Sammich: A Field Report from the Kitty NASCAR Nationals 500

-
Image
I live in the second-floor middle unit of a three-story apartment building. Which means I am not upstairs or downstairs. I am structurally compromised . Above me live two women. Heavyset A-Ganger types. When they move, the ceiling doesn’t creak — it registers seismic activity . They don’t walk. They advance . It sounds like two moose learning to Riverdance while wearing work boots and making eye contact with God. I have accepted this. Because acceptance is cheaper than therapy. Below me live people. Quiet people. Hopeful people. People who thought, “The second floor seems reasonable.” These people were wrong. Because between these layers of humanity exists me . And my cats. Enter Captain Thunderpaws — a lean, tactical menace with a thousand-yard stare and a deep mistrust of inanimate objects — and his sister, a plush, gravity-honoring loaf who runs like a beanbag chair with dreams. Together, they have unionized and designated the hours between 4 and 5 a.m. as prime time for the Kit...
Read more
-
Image
  Missing My Circle Under a Distant Moon There’s a certain kind of homesickness that doesn’t have a zip code. I’ve been thinking about my circle back in Kansas City—the women and men who held space with me, cast with me, wept, and laughed under the same sky with me. The ones who passed the salt with the tequila with the exact same reverence as a sacred chalice, who knew the exact moment a spell had landed by the goosebumps on their arms. My witches. My soul family. I miss them more than I expected. It hits me in strange ways. Like when I see the moon at her fullest, glowing behind the evergreens here in Washington, and I instinctively reach for my phone to text someone in the group— "Are you feeling this too?" But we’re scattered now. Different time zones. Different lives. Still tethered, but not in the same room, not around the same altars or fire pits. Back in Kansas City, we’d gather around tables cluttered with gaming decks, tarot decks, bundles of drying herbs, and ...
Read more