Witchery Healing ~ One Day at a Time

     Yesterday was a "do nothing" day. I used to call them lazy days, but I am intentionally changing my vocabulary. When I use the word  lazy , it carries a heavy, unearned guilt—a sharp sting that makes me feel horrible, especially now that my partner has gone back to work and is out in the world grinding for our future. And before I go any further, I have to brag about her for a moment. She is absolutely excelling in her new position. As a supervisor, she has already faced some inevitable backlash from other employees, but she handled it with an abundance of grace. Her own supervisor is completely blown away by her. By her fourth day, she was already flying solo and helping the other two new hires find their footing. This job fits her so perfectly it feels as though it was custom-made for her soul. She is genuinely happy, and she brings that radiant, upbeat energy right back home with her after her shift. I absolutely love sitting with her and listening to the hig...

     Change has a way of arriving all at once, shifting the air in the room before you’ve even had a chance to catch your breath. Recently, things in my world took a massive, beautiful turn. After almost a year of navigating the heavy waters of unemployment, my partner got a new job. I am so incredibly, fiercely proud of her. I know deep down that this is the definitive next step toward our ultimate freedom—both financial and otherwise. We are  so  close to moving into our motor home, and my biggest hope right now is that we can smoothly handle the rest of the lingering logistics before we officially transition into that new chapter. It is a beautiful future we are building, but stepping into day one of this new routine brings its own kind of weight. For a long time now, my energy has been so deeply attuned to hers that her presence is like the baseline of my environment. I am so used to the constant, comforting hum of her field next to mine that when she walks ...

     Yesterday, I chose to step back. I initiated a Sacred Pause, intentionally staying off my social media platforms to give myself a moment of pure breathing room before stepping back into work. If I’m being completely honest, relaxing didn’t come easily at first. It rarely does when you’re used to constantly moving. But eventually, I fell into a gentle, restorative rhythm: a chilled coffee, a quick check of my stats, and then letting myself sink completely into the comforting, immersive world of witchy and slow living YouTube. Throughout the day, I felt little ebbs and flows of anxiety—that nagging, conditioned voice whispering that I  should  be doing something "productive." But I fought for my quiet. The peace I felt far outweighed the urge to push myself back into work mode. And when my partner came down sick, I willingly pushed through my own pain to handle what needed to be taken care of. I didn't mind it at all. One of the absolute foundational rules in...

     I was watching a YouTuber today, and something about her braids sparked a memory that hit me with unexpected weight. I remembered the years I spent hiding my natural red hair. Back then—during my marriage and perhaps even before—I felt like I couldn’t just  be . I dyed my hair jet black and leaned into an alternative style, not because it felt like me, but because I was lost. I hated what I saw in the mirror back then. I was spiraling, gaining weight, and viewed my natural hair as an eyesore. Even the choice to keep it black felt like a weary act of rebellion against my mother’s voice. She had forced me into a mold for so long that I didn’t know who I was as an adult. I spent years trying to find "Ashley" from the outside in, changing colors and styles like I was trying on different lives that didn't quite fit. But the view in the mirror has changed. I don’t hate what I see anymore. I want to keep my red hair now because it feels like an outward expression of my...

     I think I might be late to the party, but perhaps that’s just what happens when you’re forced to grow up at the speed of survival. Between the health crises and near-death experiences of my youth, and the kind of abuse that fractures the deepest parts of a child for a lifetime, I never really had the chance to just  be . But today, as I was taking my spiritual bath, the steam seemed to clear more than just the room; it cleared my entire perspective. I had this sudden, electrifying realization: no one is controlling my life anymore. Not my parents, not a partner, not even an "all-seeing god." For the first time, I am the one holding the remote. I get to choose what I do, where I go, and exactly how I heal. It feels like I’m standing at the threshold of eighteen all over again, but this time, I’m realizing that I am the alchemist of my own life.      This breakthrough hasn't happened in isolation. I’ve been working closely with Lilith, and her no-no...

     Yesterday, the world felt heavy. My body felt as though it were covered in thick sludge—my back was a map of pain, and the "Dizzy Sea" was threatening to pull me under. But it wasn't about me. It was the one-year anniversary of the assault my partner endured. She needed distraction; she needed me. In the world of slow living, we often talk about "spoons"—the limited energy we have to give. I decided that if I had the spoons, I’d spend them on our future. I built a cleaning box and set my sights on the motorhome. The day started with the chaos of reality. We took the dogs—Lilo and Conan—to the motorhome while we prepped for the laundromat. Lilo, our Pitbull mix, claimed the couch like she’d lived there forever. Conan, my Catahoula/German Shepherd mix, was less sure. Between their nerves, the rising heat, and the flare my body was screaming through, we had to pivot. We took them back to the safety of the apartment. When we returned to the motorhome, I stayed ...

     We all have days where the "spoons" are plentiful. Today was one of those for me; I got my work done, found my rhythm, and finally sat down to a proper meal after a long stretch of an empty pantry. It was a decent day—until it wasn't. Out of nowhere, the familiar dread settled in. My breath grew shallow, the room began to spin, and "Becky"—the name I’ve lovingly given to my OCD—decided to set the house on fire.   I have a theory about why today felt like a "molasses" stage for my mental health. Stress is a master trigger. Between the weight of court matters last month, the lingering energy of living in a "trauma apartment," and the wait for the next big adventure with my partner, my system is at its limit. When stress hits, it spins the wheel of my diagnoses: PTSD, anxiety, depression, Bipolar, and OCD. It doesn’t matter which one the wheel lands on; the impact is the same. Today, it landed on the intrusive thoughts—those terrifying ...

     I didn’t manifest this. I didn’t sit in a circle and wish upon a star, and I didn’t pray to a god who often feels like they’ve forgotten we’re even here. To be honest, I think I accidentally built the life I’ve always dreamed of simply by refusing to stop walking through the dark. It didn’t start with a "goal." I’ve always hated that word. It feels like it belongs to a "grind culture" that values output over the soul—a world where you’re only as good as what you’ve checked off a list. For me, it started with  healing.  It started with the grueling, unglamorous work of therapy. It started with staring directly at my trauma and the shadowed parts of myself I wanted to change. I relied on my goddesses and my practice, especially on the days when my feet felt like lead. And somewhere in that messy process of healing, a dream started to flicker.   It began with a vague urge to write. I didn’t know what I wanted to say yet, but the gears were turning. That u...

     I recently found myself hitting "unsubscribe" on creators I had followed for years. It wasn't out of malice, but out of a sudden, sharp clarity. I watched someone I admired push through total exhaustion, desperate for a "toned" body and a rigid structure, and for the first time, I didn't see inspiration. I saw anxiety—a soul at war with its own temple.      As someone who has fought hard to heal from an eating disorder, I realized that "falling off the wagon" is a myth designed to make us feel like failures for simply being human. When I hit that button, I didn't feel a loss. I felt  peace . Along with the hustle culture, I have purged another source of chaos: I have found myself only following women. For too long, men brought nothing but turbulence and hurt to my world. The shadows of my past—the specific type of abuse I endured growing up—seemed to brand me with a target that only the wrong kind of men could see. But now, I say:  no more...

       For a few days, I tried to play the game. I sat at my keyboard and I tried to shrink my soul into a box labeled "AdSense Approved." I looked at my life—my somatic journey through pain, my love for the gothic and the "Strange and Unusual"—and I tried to make it clinical. I tried to make it boring. I was ready to trade the "Blood Magic" for "Medical Terminology." I was ready to swap the "Betrayal" for "Professional Dispute Resolution." And for what? For pennies. The corporate world has a specific way of trying to take your voice. It doesn't use a silencer; it uses a "template." It tells you that if you want to be "valuable," you have to be "palatable." It asks you to shave off your sharp edges until you are a smooth, round stone that fits perfectly into their sterile machine. I felt the anger bubbling up in my gut—that somatic "bracing" that tells me a boundary is being crossed....

     We are taught from a young age that if you do the right thing—if you speak up, if you provide the evidence, if you use your voice—the system will catch you. They call it "justice." They call it "karma." Yesterday, I watched that fairy tale burn to the ground. After months of being told "the lawyers have it in the bag," after video proof of a confession, and after the agonizing toll this has taken on our spirits, the verdict came back:  Not Guilty.  Not because the crime didn't happen, but because of a level of state negligence that is almost impossible to fathom. When the "System" fails us this catastrophically, it isn't just a mental blow; it is a physical poisoning. For those of us already navigating the tilting decks of the  Dizzy Sea , this isn't just "stress." It is a massive influx of fire in the veins. When the state fails to provide sanctuary, the body remains in a state of  Hyper-Vigilance . Your internal compa...

     Living with the  Dizzy Sea  means my world can sometimes feel like it’s spinning out of control. When the storm of the nervous system begins to howl or the fire in my spine becomes a roar, I don’t always need a chart or a checklist—I need my Guardians. In this Sanctuary, healing isn't just found in tinctures and rituals; it is found in the breathing, living souls who keep me tethered to the earth. They are my North Stars when the horizon disappears. Conan  is the intelligence of the operation. A blend of  Catahoula and German Shepherd , he possesses a striking, ancient pattern and a loyal "work ethic" that never sleeps. Conan is the watcher at the edge of the woods. He has a way of patrolling the perimeter of our clearing, making sure the chaos of the outside world stays at bay while I rest. He is my permission to let down my guard. When he is at peace, I know I am safe to take up space, to breathe, and to prioritize my own recovery. He is the qui...

     Lately, I’ve found myself captivated by a specific corner of the digital world: women living in the rural provinces of the Philippines and other quiet corners of the globe. I watch them transform humble, non-glamorized dwellings into true homes—spaces where life is honored in its simplest, most sacred forms. It has shifted my perspective. In the West, we are drowned in a culture of "more," yet watching these creators reminds me that we often live in luxury without even realizing it. It has crystallized the life I want: a slow-living existence. To live modestly, sipping my coffee and appreciating the magic in the mundane, even when the world outside isn't "ideal."   My path to this quiet morning coffee was not a straight line; it was a jagged escape. When I finally left the embers of my past, I walked away with nothing but two bags of essentials and what my gecko, Yennifer, needed to survive. We were starting from absolute zero. We drifted from a friend...

     Today, I am sitting by my window, letting the cool breeze wash over the room. Outside, the sky has turned that soft, heavy charcoal—the kind of grey that signals a shift in the atmosphere. The first drops have begun to fall, and I can hear the earth sighing as it drinks. For many, the bright, golden sun is their grounding, the light that pulls them out of the shadows. But for me, the rain is my sanctuary. While the world retreats inside, I find myself opening the glass to meet the mist. I want to feel and breathe in that cool, vitalizing air that only exists when the sky opens up. Living in the high, dry altitude of the desert, we are constantly parched. It isn't just our skin or our throats; it is our very spirit that begins to feel brittle. For those of us navigating the  Dizzy Sea  or the fire of  DDD , the dry air can make our internal storm feel much more turbulent. When a storm rolls through, it is a mechanical relief from the Mother. In the...

     Recently, I sat in an ER waiting room, and I saw the face of a failing machine. I was there because my body had sent out a "Red Flag" flare—a sudden, terrifying numbness in my core that signaled my spine was under siege. But as I sat there, I wasn't just a seeker of help; I was a witness to the neglected. I saw a baby, red-faced and screaming with fever, looking utterly miserable in nothing but a diaper. I sat next to a man whose breathing sounded like a saturated sponge, nodding off in a way that made my skin crawl with worry. I watched a woman stumble in, clutching a trash can and gasping that her throat was closing in an allergic reaction, only to be told to sit back down in the lobby. The system isn't just slow; it is blind. I eventually chose to sign the papers and walk out. I couldn't sit there and watch others suffer while feeling like my own emergency was being treated as an inconvenience. I realized then that the "experts" had stopped looki...

Trigger Warning:   This post discusses menstrual health and the use of sacred life-force in ritual. Please read with care and honor your own comfort levels. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~      For the sisters who still carry the moon’s rhythm within them, it’s time we speak of the power in the "crimson time." We’ve been taught by a sterile world to hide it, to medicate it away, and to push through the exhaustion as if our bodies aren’t performing a miracle of release. But what if we leaned into the magic instead? What if we recognized that during this time, our feminine energy is at its absolute peak? It is not a drain; it is our wildest, most untamed power. It is the time when the "Dizzy Sea" meets the "River of Life."  I’ve found a fierce, dark magic in the midst of the fire. I know it sounds wild to a world obsessed with comfort, but I have reached a place where I refuse to mask the sensation of my cycle u...

     For weeks, my Sanctuary has been a place of pure, raw survival. When you are navigating the tilting decks of the  Dizzy Sea  or the white-hot fire of a spine in revolt, sometimes the only goal is to draw the next breath. In those seasons, the energy required for even the simplest rituals doesn't exist. The actions that once made me feel like  me  fell by the wayside, replaced by the clinical necessity of just making it to tomorrow. But last night, the winds shifted. With my partner’s steady hand to help me through the waters of a bath, I found a sudden, rare pocket of energy. And I decided to use it to cast a spell. This wasn't about vanity; it was about  Intent . In the world of the Alchemist, how we treat our vessel determines how much magic it can hold. For weeks, I had looked at my body as a "problem to be managed" rather than a home to inhabit. Last night, I decided to move back in. Each step was a brick being laid back into the wall of ...