The Witch Behind the Curtain

I am Angela McIntire—also known as Sage, and to some, Mama Bear. I’ve been walking the crooked path, carving runes in the dirt with bare feet and stubborn fire, for over 41 years.

My magic isn’t something I stumbled into by accident. It’s stitched into my bloodline, whispered down through the marrow from my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother before her. My younger brother had the Sight too—though that particular torch burned too hot and too fast. The gifts were there. The knowing. The dreams. The uncanny timing. The way animals seemed to pay attention when we walked past, like they knew something stirred just beneath the surface of our skin.

But boy howdy, were we steered away from all of it.

We were baptized in holy water and guilt before we could walk, marched to church every Sunday morning and Wednesday night without fail. Bible quizzes, youth group mission trips, singing hymns in nursing homes, scrubbing the floors of orphanages for Jesus—if there was a gold star to be earned for obedience, I probably had a collection. Not that I was rebelling, at least not outwardly. I smiled. I complied. I learned to hide my witchiness behind soft manners and polite silence.

But you can’t un-know what your bones remember.

In 1984, on a perfectly ordinary school field trip, the universe cracked open for me. Hidden on a cluttered shelf in a little bookstore, Magical Rites from the Crystal Well all but jumped into my hands. Nestled beside it was The Witches' Way by Janet and Stewart Farrar. I didn’t understand it at the time, but that moment would change everything. It wasn’t just a spark. It was ignition.

That’s when I stopped pretending.

That’s when I started remembering.

That was the turning point. The hinge moment. My quiet inner knowing became a roaring fire—and I’ve walked the witch’s path ever since.

In the beginning, it was all trial and error. No mentors. No TikTok how-tos. Just paperbacks dog-eared to oblivion, candle wax spilled on the carpet, and rituals whispered in the dog days of summer far and away from people as I could get. My altar was a dirt dugout on a creek bank, my first wand was a fallen pecan branch I rescued from my grandfathers burn pile. And yet, the magic worked.

I learned by living it. I trusted my gut, followed dreams, and paid attention to the land around me. Nature became my first teacher—and she taught with thunder and bloom, drought and decay. I worked with what I had, and what I had was spirit. Scrappy, determined, wild spirit.

Over time, my practice deepened. I studied, I listened, I unlearned, and I grew. I sat at the feet of elders, shared coffee with authors whose books had shaped my youth, and passed the torch to those just beginning to walk their path. I’ve circled under full moons and new moons, in living rooms and deep woods, in community halls and on my own living room floor.

I’ve practiced through grief, through illness, through joy, through rebirth. Magic hasn’t just been something I do—it’s how I survive. How I remember who I am.

These days, my magic is grounded in kitchen witchery, ancestral reverence, practical spell craft, and no-nonsense metaphysical truth. I believe in the power of bitter herbs and big feelings. I believe in crafting from scratch, speaking plainly, and honoring the dead. My practice isn’t polished or performative—it’s real, lived-in, and sometimes held together with duct tape and willpower. But it’s mine. And it works.

But why does my magic work?

Is it because of the books I smuggled into school, tucked behind textbooks and stashed in hollowed-out cabinets no one bothered to clean? Maybe. Maybe it started there, with ink and page, with whispered spells written in the margins of algebra notes.

Or maybe it didn’t truly start working until I met my first real teacher—my mentor. The one who saw me not as someone “dabbling,” but as someone remembering. She didn’t just hand me rituals or reading lists. She taught me how to listen. How to sit with silence until it spoke back. How to move with the rhythm of things older than language. Under her guidance, things began to click. Rituals stopped feeling like playacting and started unfolding like conversations with the unseen.

But then again... maybe the magic didn’t settle into my bones until I started teaching. Until I found myself repeating the same lessons I once fumbled through, now spoken with clarity and lived experience. Something shifted when I lit the candle for someone else, when I saw the spark catch in a younger witch’s eyes. That’s when I truly felt the weight—and the beauty—of the lineage we carry. Not just the bloodline, but the magical line. The line of those who remember, and choose to keep remembering.

So maybe the magic works because I’ve honored every stage of it.

Because I never stopped asking questions, even when the answers didn’t come easy. Because I kept showing up to the circle, even when the fire was down to embers. Because I’ve walked this crooked road with honesty, with grit, and with a deep respect for both the mystery and the mess.

That’s why the magic works.

It works because I work it. I live it. I teach it. And I never forget my roots.