Get Up Witch!

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Some days, y'all, even I look at my altar like it’s a gym membership I forgot I’m paying for. Right now mine is in need of maintenance. Dusting, refreshing offerings, maybe a few new crystals. You ALWAYS need crystals and anyone who says different you must banish from your life immediately. You don't need that negativity in your life. Anyway...

We all hit that wall—the one made of exhaustion, overwhelm, and the sharp little voice whispering, “Not today… maybe tomorrow… maybe next moon cycle… maybe never.”
And for a minute, it’s tempting. The spiral is warm, the couch is soft, and the world will not, in fact, crash into the sun if I fail to burn incense today.



But here’s the part I had to swallow whole this last month:
Magic doesn’t wait for your mood.
It never has.

My ancestors didn’t get “breaks.” My great-grandmother didn’t ask the mountain witches of Appalachia if she could have a “mental health day” before throwing iron at whatever the hell was creeping around the chicken coop. They didn’t have the luxury of spiritual procrastination.

And yet here I am—forty years into the craft, books under my belt, a blog that reaches thousands, students who look to me for the real, old-school path—dragging my feet like a toddler who dropped her sippy cup.

The truth?
I hit a spiritual wall.
A big one.

Not because the magic faded—but because life got damn loud.

The job, the stress, the body changes, two types of cancer in 4 years, the writing deadlines, the never-ending emotional debris field of being a human in 2025… it piles up. It clings. And without noticing, I slid into survival mode, not witch mode.

And witches don’t thrive in survival mode.

Witches thrive in sovereignty.

So last week—somewhere between complaining at my altar and glaring at my tarot deck like it personally offended me—I heard a voice in my head that was absolutely my grandmother’s:

“Get up, girl. The magic’s right where you left it.”

So I did.

Not gracefully.
Not ceremoniously.
Not in flowing robes or under a glittering moon.

I got up in pajama pants, hair looking like I wrestled a raccoon and lost, and lit a single damn candle.

One flame.
One breath.
One choice:
Show up, even if it’s not pretty.

And that’s the real witchcraft, isn’t it?

Not the perfect rituals.
Not the elaborate altars.
Not the pristine vibes.

It’s the gritty, stubborn, keep-moving magic.
The kind that says: “Even if I’m tired, I still stand.”

So if you’re in that same place—stalled, slumped, side-eyeing your altar like it owes you money—here’s your sign:

Get up, Witch.
Not perfectly.
Just honestly.

Light one candle.
Wash one bowl of water.
Whisper one prayer.
Take one breath like you mean it.

The magic is still there.
It didn’t abandon you.
It’s waiting for you to remember who the hell you are.

And you?
You’re a witch.
Act accordingly.

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