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...
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...
Every once in a while, someone wanders into a space that isn’t theirs and decides they’re going to poison the well. You know the type. The sideways comments. The passive-aggressive whispers. The subtle little digs meant to make people doubt themselves. It’s the oldest trick in the book. If you can’t build something meaningful, you try to rot what someone else built. Here’s the funny part though. That strategy only works when the person on the receiving end is insecure, isolated, or desperate for approval. I am none of those things. I see the behavior. I see the pattern. And I see exactly what it is: insecurity dressed up as cleverness. Let me say something clearly for anyone who might need to hear it. Communities are not built by people who lurk in corners throwing shade. They’re built by people who show up, do the work, create things, support others, and keep going even when the path gets messy. That’s the difference. You can throw all the little barbs you want, but the reality is s...
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