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...
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...
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 ...
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