Witch, Please
Witch, Please
I’ve identified as a witch for most of my life. My mom dropped the bomb when I was eleven—“We’re witches,” she said, like she was telling me we needed milk. Naturally, I took it and ran. Years later, a dive into the family archives confirmed that, technically, she wasn’t wrong. Turns out my dad’s side includes one John Durrant—imprisoned during the Salem witch trials, possibly for planting by the moon or having the misfortune of being married.
On the other side, my maternal great-something-grandmother was a Cherokee wolf clan woman, which explained my early obsession with moon phases, grave dirt, and talking to invisible things. I’d been casting spells and manifesting reality before I knew there were Pinterest boards for that. But things really got… real during my worst addiction years.
In a haze of withdrawal and desperation, I cast two of the strongest spells of my life: a protection charm, and—because I was nothing if not a dramatic dumbass—a blood binding ritual to tether my then-boyfriend to me forever. The results? Two near-fatal car accidents we somehow walked away from unscathed. And two months later, a pregnancy test that read “forever” in tiny pink lines.
That wasn’t what I meant by binding, but message received. I wasn’t fit to be a mother then, and someone else stepped up for my son. I made peace with that. I did what was right, even if it wrecked me.
What didn’t wreck me? The Norse goddess of death.
At my lowest, dumped in some other woman’s guest room on a mattress that smelled like damp regret, I performed a trance ritual. I journeyed to Helheim to meet Hel, hoping she’d rip the bleeding heart out of my chest and replace it with something colder, harder. Something survivable.
She did.
She warned me it wouldn’t stop the pain—just make it bearable. I said yes. She reached into my chest, and when I came back, my fingertips were frostbitten and my soul had a new landlord.
The transformation wasn’t immediate, but it was permanent. Since that night, she’s walked with me—whispering strength when I had none, holding me together when I would’ve rather fallen apart. Whether it’s because she protects children and I was barely a mother, or because she saw something in me I hadn’t yet, I’ll never know.
Witchcraft has been engraved into my very DNA. My choices, for better or worse have led me to my beliefs. My spirituality sprung forth from my desperation. My faith from the very depths of human despair. Witchcraft undoubtedly saved my life. There’s nothing so profound as the realization of self, or the discovery of faith after you’ve been lost in the dark for so long.
So yeah. Witch, please. You think I made it through all that on dumb luck?