Cauldrons & Crossroads

The Blood of Revolutionaries: Honoring My Ancestors

March 6th, 2026

Every now and then, you come across a moment that makes you pause and reflect on the invisible threads that connect you to the past. Recently, while reading a book that has gained a great deal of popularity, I experienced one of those moments. Within its pages were two names that made my heart swell with pride—Anne Hutchinson and Achsa Sprague.

They are not simply historical figures to me. They are my ancestors.

To see their stories told in a widely read book filled me with a deep sense of reverence. These women were not quiet participants in history—they were revolutionaries. Women who stood firmly in their truth in times when doing so was dangerous, even life-threatening. To know that their blood runs through my veins is both a privilege and a responsibility.

The Courage of Anne Hutchinson

Anne Hutchinson was a bold religious thinker in the early American colonies. In the 1630s, she openly challenged the authority of Puritan ministers in Massachusetts Bay Colony, arguing that individuals could receive divine guidance directly from God without the mediation of clergy.

At a time when women were expected to remain silent in matters of theology and leadership, Anne held meetings in her home where she discussed scripture and encouraged independent thought. Her ideas threatened the rigid religious structure of the colony.

The result was predictable for the era—she was put on trial for her beliefs, condemned for her teachings, and ultimately banished from Massachusetts for her “heretical” views.

Anne Hutchinson stood for spiritual autonomy long before the idea was socially acceptable. She challenged patriarchal authority and insisted that personal revelation mattered. In many ways, she was a proto-feminist spiritual leader centuries ahead of her time.

The Voice of Achsa Sprague

Another ancestor of mine, Achsa Sprague, carried that same revolutionary spirit into the 19th century.

Achsa was a Spiritualist speaker and activist during a time when women were rarely given public platforms. After experiencing what she believed to be a miraculous healing, she began speaking publicly about Spiritualism—the belief that communication with the spirit world was possible.

But Achsa did not stop there.

She used her voice to advocate for women’s rights, abolition, and social reform. She traveled widely, giving lectures that challenged societal norms and encouraged people to rethink the structures of power around them. Historical records also connect her work with support for the Underground Railroad, aiding those seeking freedom from slavery.

At a time when women were expected to be quiet and obedient, Achsa Sprague stood on stages and spoke truth to power.

These were not passive women in history. They were spiritual rebels.

The Blood That Shapes Us

Learning about your ancestors can be a powerful experience. It reminds you that who you are did not begin with you.

We are the continuation of countless lives—people who loved, struggled, fought, survived, and believed deeply enough to shape the future.

When I look at the lives of Anne Hutchinson and Achsa Sprague, I see echoes of my own path. Women who spoke boldly about spirituality. Women who challenged authority. Women who refused to silence their voices even when society demanded it.

It reminds me that our ancestors often live through us in ways we may not even realize.

Their courage becomes part of our inheritance.

Ancestor Veneration Across Cultures

Honoring our ancestors is not a new concept. In fact, it is one of the most universal spiritual practices across human history.

Many cultures recognize that the dead are not truly gone—they remain part of the spiritual fabric of our lives.

In African Traditional Religions and Vodou, ancestors are revered as guiding spirits who watch over their descendants. They are honored through offerings, prayers, and remembrance. The ancestors are believed to provide wisdom, protection, and spiritual grounding.

In Chinese traditions, ancestor veneration has existed for thousands of years. Families maintain ancestral altars, burn incense, and offer food during festivals such as Qingming to honor those who came before them.

In Mexican culture, Día de los Muertos celebrates the return of ancestors to the world of the living. Altars are decorated with photographs, marigolds, candles, and favorite foods of the departed.

In many Pagan traditions, ancestors are honored especially during Samhain, when the veil between worlds is believed to be thin. Offerings, candles, and stories help keep their memory alive.

Even in traditions where ancestor worship is not formally recognized, the act of remembering our lineage—telling stories, preserving family history, visiting graves—is still a form of reverence.

Because deep down, humans understand something important:

We come from somewhere.

Why Honoring Our Ancestors Matters

Ancestor veneration is not about blind worship. It is about connection.

When we honor our ancestors, we acknowledge that our lives are part of a much larger story. We recognize the sacrifices, struggles, and victories that made our existence possible.

It can also be a powerful spiritual practice. Many people believe that ancestors serve as guardians and guides, offering subtle support to those who remember them.

But even beyond spirituality, ancestor remembrance gives us identity. It roots us in history. It reminds us that we are part of a lineage that stretches across centuries.

And sometimes, as in my case, it reminds us that the fire in our spirit may have been burning long before we were born.

Walking With the Dead

To know that Anne Hutchinson and Achsa Sprague are part of my bloodline fills me with profound pride. These women challenged authority, advocated for spiritual freedom, and spoke boldly in times when doing so carried real risk.

Their legacy reminds me that the path I walk today is not entirely my own. It was paved by those who came before me.

And that is why honoring our ancestors matters.

Because when we remember them, we remember ourselves.

The dead are not truly gone.

They live in our bones, our stories, our courage, and our spirit.

And sometimes, if we listen closely, we can still hear them whispering through the generations.
When the Magick Feels Heavy: My Experience with Spiritual and Creative Burnout

March 4th, 2026
Something that people don’t talk about enough in spiritual communities is burnout. Not just the everyday kind that comes from being busy, but the deeper exhaustion that can happen when your life path involves constantly creating, teaching, holding space, and showing up for others spiritually.

As someone who has walked a spiritual path for most of my life, I have experienced this more than once.

People often see the surface of what I do. They see the books, the workshops, the tarot readings, the jewelry I create, the art, the posts online. They see the role of Witch, teacher, or author. But behind all of that is a human being who is also navigating life, grief, responsibilities, and the constant act of creating something meaningful to share with the world.

And sometimes, the well runs dry.

When your spiritual path is also part of your work and your creative expression, the lines can blur. What once felt sacred and exciting can slowly start to feel like something you have to produce rather than something that flows naturally.

You may feel pressure to keep creating.
To keep posting.
To keep teaching.
To keep inspiring others.

But creativity and spirituality were never meant to function like a factory.

They move in cycles.

I’ve learned that even the most devoted practitioners need seasons where they step back from being the guide and simply return to being the seeker again.

Another layer that many spiritual practitioners carry is the emotional and energetic labor of helping others.

As a tarot reader and intuitive, I spend a lot of time holding space for people who are going through some of the most difficult moments of their lives. I’ve always considered this work sacred, but sacred work can also be heavy.

There are times when you realize you’ve been pouring your energy outward for so long that you haven’t taken the time to replenish your own spirit.

That realization can be humbling. Working with snakes for over twenty years has taught me something profound about transformation.

A snake cannot grow without shedding its skin.

But the shedding process is not instantaneous. There is a period where the old skin becomes dull, cloudy, and uncomfortable before it finally releases.

I’ve come to recognize that creative and spiritual burnout can be a kind of shedding. A moment where the old version of ourselves, our work, or our direction is loosening so something new can emerge.

It’s not a failure of the path. It’s part of the path.

When burnout appears, I’ve learned that the answer is rarely to push harder.

Instead, the medicine is often much simpler:
- stepping away from social media for a while
- spending quiet time with my snakes
- creating art with no intention of selling it
- reconnecting with the spirits and ancestors in private
These are the moments when spirituality becomes personal again instead of performative.

And that is where the real magick lives.

If you are someone who walks a spiritual path, especially one where you serve others, I want you to hear this clearly:

You are allowed to step back.
You are allowed to create less for a while.
You are allowed to protect your energy.

Burnout does not mean you have lost your gifts. It simply means you are human, and even the most devoted practitioners need time to return to themselves.

One of the reasons I resonate so deeply with serpent symbolism is because the serpent reminds us that life is not a straight line.

It is a coil.

There are moments when the energy expands outward, when we teach, create, and share. And there are moments when the coil tightens inward, when we retreat, rest, and transform.

Both are necessary.

Both are sacred.

And if you find yourself in a quiet season right now, trust that it is not the end of your creativity or your spiritual connection.

It may simply be the moment before the next shedding.

And when the old skin finally falls away, you may find yourself stepping forward stronger, clearer, and more aligned with your path than ever before.
Can Ball Pythons Socialize?

March 2nd, 2026

For over twenty years, ball pythons have been part of my life — not just as animals in my care, but as constant companions and spiritual coworkers. They are more than family to me.

Like most keepers, I housed them separately. Why? Because that’s what we were all taught. The standard message echoed through forums and Facebook groups was clear: Do not cohabitate ball pythons. We were told that keeping them together would inevitably cause stress, aggression, competition, and illness. Solitary by nature. End of discussion.

But emerging research is beginning to challenge that long-held belief.

New studies suggest that ball pythons — particularly females and juveniles — may be more socially tolerant than previously assumed. In fact, research indicates that juvenile ball pythons may voluntarily cluster together, spending over 60% of their time in physical contact with one another (Skinner, M., Kumpan, T. & Miller, N., 2024). This behavior suggests that, under certain conditions, they may not be as strictly solitary as the reptile community has long maintained.

Now, first let me preface this by saying that I do continue to house my ball pythons separately. I use a rack system because, in my experience, it provides the most consistent control of heat and humidity — two of the most critical factors in proper ball python husbandry.

That said, separation does not mean isolation. All my snakes receive outside time, enrichment, and what I lovingly call “family time.” They are handled, observed, and engaged regularly. My approach has always been rooted in both practical care and deep respect for their well-being.

And yes. I have seen the infamous image of the ball python ingesting another after being together for an exorbitant amount of time. That situation was not based on housing two pythons together in a large tank. That situation was completely different.

Temple of Pythons
Benin, Africa

However, during my research, I was unable to find a single peer-reviewed study explicitly stating that housing ball pythons together is inherently dangerous. Instead, I was repeatedly directed to an article written by Thomas of NW Reptiles. In that piece, several references were provided regarding the physiological effects of stress — but those studies were conducted on humans. The justification given was essentially, “the studies were done on humans, but the findings apply to all animals.”

That is a broad and problematic leap.

Reptiles and mammals have fundamentally different physiological systems, stress responses, and social behaviors. While cross-species comparisons can sometimes offer insight, if research on human stress automatically applies to reptiles — without reptile-specific data — is scientifically unsound. Citing mammalian studies as definitive proof of reptile outcomes oversimplifies biology and does not constitute direct evidence.

Aside from that, the only other scholarly source I was able to locate was a 2021 study titled “Animal-appropriate housing of ball pythons – Behavior-based evaluation of two types of housing systems” (Hollandt, T., Baur, M., & Wöhr, A. C., 2021). However, this study did not address cohabitation at all. Instead, it focused specifically on comparing rack systems versus terrarium housing to evaluate which environment better supported species-appropriate behaviors.

In other words, the research centered on enclosure type — not on whether ball pythons should or should not be housed together.

As with all husbandry practices, nuance matters. But it’s fascinating — and humbling — to realize that even after decades of keeping and working with these sacred beings, we are still learning who they truly are.

And who they truly are may not be exactly what we’ve long assumed — or what we were taught to believe.

Science is not meant to reinforce dogma; it is meant to evolve our understanding. It challenges us to reexamine assumptions and refine our perspectives as new information emerges. Perhaps our long-held view of the ball python as strictly solitary deserves closer scrutiny. It may be that our collective understanding has been shaped more by repetition than by evidence — and that it’s time to look again, with curiosity rather than certainty.

The first was published on May 8, 2024: “Socially-mediated activation in the snake and social-decision-making network,” in Behavioral Brain Research. This study found that when female ball pythons were placed together in an enclosure with separate hiding spots, they did not simply remain isolated. Instead, they actively sought one another out, using scent cues to initiate social contact. Their interactions appeared to be intentional rather than incidental.

This research was followed in November 2024 by a study titled “Intense Sociability in a ‘Non-Social’ Snake,” conducted by Morgan Skinner. In this experiment, Skinner and his colleagues placed six ball pythons into a spacious enclosure for ten days, providing ample individual shelters for each snake.

Twice each night, researchers cleaned the enclosure and rotated the snakes into different hides. It was during one of these routine shelter changes that Skinner observed what he later described as a “python cuddle” — multiple snakes voluntarily choosing to rest in physical contact, even when given the option to remain separate.

Curious whether the clustering behavior was simply about the shelter itself rather than social preference, the researchers removed the shared hide. The result? The pythons regrouped and congregated under a different shelter. Their behavior suggested that it wasn’t the structure they were attached to — it was each other.

To further strengthen the credibility of the findings, Vladimir Dinets, a specialist in reptile social behavior, reviewed the study and reportedly could not identify any methodological flaws. His assessment added significant weight to the research, reinforcing the idea that these observations were not incidental, but indicative of genuine social tendencies.

Together, these findings challenge the long-standing assumption that ball pythons are strictly solitary, suggesting that under the right conditions, they may display a level of sociability previously unrecognized.

In conclusion, will I continue to house my ball pythons separately? Yes — at least until someone can convincingly demonstrate that tanks provide better overall environmental stability than the rack systems I currently use.

However, with this emerging research in mind, I can’t help but wonder: is it really so far-fetched to consider that ball pythons might benefit from occasional, carefully supervised social interaction? If studies are showing that certain females and juveniles actively seek one another out, perhaps the conversation isn’t about abandoning responsible husbandry — but about remaining open to the possibility that these snakes may be more socially nuanced than we once believed.

Maybe it’s not about rewriting everything we know overnight. Maybe it’s simply about allowing room for the idea that even a “solitary” snake might enjoy a play date now and then.

References:

Skinner, M., Kumpan, T. & Miller, N. Intense sociability in a “non-social” snake (Python regius). Behav Ecol Sociobiol 78, 113 (2024). https://doi.org/10.1007/s00265-024-03535-7

Skinner, M., Kumpan, T. & Miller, N. Intense sociability in a “non-social” snake (Python regius). Behav Ecol Sociobiol 78, 113 (2024). https://doi.org/10.1007/s00265-024-03535-7

Morgan Skinner, Dania Daanish, Chelsey C. Damphousse, Randolph W. Krohmer, Paul E. Mallet, Bruce E. McKay, Noam Miller Socially-mediated activation in the snake social-decision-making network, Behavioural Brain Research,Volume 465, 2024, 114965,ISSN 0166-4328,https://doi.org/10.1016/j.bbr.2024.114965.

Hollandt T, Baur M, Wöhr AC. Animal-appropriate housing of ball pythons (Python regius)-Behavior-based evaluation of two types of housing systems. PLoS One. 2021 May 27;16(5):e0247082. doi: 10.1371/journal.pone.0247082. PMID: 34043634; PMCID: PMC8158952.

https://www.nwreptiles.com/myths-about-ball-pythons/
Service Is the Highest Spell: Spirituality in Action

February 20th, 2026
There is a truth I have come to understand over decades of walking an alternative spiritual path: one of the most important things you can do as a spiritual person is to help your community.

Not in theory.
Not in aesthetic.
Not in perfectly filtered social media posts about “high vibrations.”

But in action.

This applies to all religions, but I am especially speaking to those who walk alternative paths—Paganism, Wicca, Vodou, Witchcraft, occult traditions. Our paths are not just about ritual tools, initiations, aesthetics, or followers. They are about responsibility. They are about power with purpose.

Spirituality Without Service Is Performance

Years ago, I lived in Flagstaff, Arizona—very close to the so-called hub of enlightenment, Sedona. I saw many self-proclaimed “enlightened” individuals who spoke endlessly about love, light, ascension, and cosmic wisdom. They had devoted followers. People who adored them. People who paid for every class, workshop, and piece of artwork they offered.

Now let me be clear:
There is nothing wrong with being paid for your work. You absolutely should be paid for your knowledge, your craft, your labor.

But giving back to your community is not about monetization.

And that’s where I saw the disconnect.

There were people speaking about unity and higher consciousness who never lifted a hand to help the homeless person downtown. Never volunteered. Never donated time. Never advocated. Never stepped outside their spiritual echo chamber to serve someone who could give them nothing in return.

Spirituality became performance. Branding. Influence.

But service? That was missing.

The Forgotten as Sacred

When I founded the Pagans Behind Bars Project, it was not because it was glamorous. It was not because it gained followers. It was not because it was lucrative.

It was because I asked myself:
What can I do, in my capacity as a Priestess, to give back?

Incarcerated Pagans and Wiccans are often forgotten and deeply misunderstood. They struggle for access to spiritual materials, recognition, and support. Many are seeking genuine transformation. Many are trying to rebuild their lives.

Supporting them was something I could do. It was within my reach. And that is what service is—it is not about saving the world. It is about doing what is in your hands to do.

Service Is the Backbone of Magic

If you study traditional Pagan cultures, Vodou houses, or even ancient mystery schools, community was central.
- The witch was the healer.
- The priestess was the mediator.
- The houngan or mambo served the community.
- The elder carried wisdom for the people.
Power was never meant to sit on a pedestal.

It was meant to circulate.

And yes, not everyone has the means or opportunity to start a nonprofit. Not everyone can volunteer weekly. Not everyone can donate money.

But service does not have to be grand.

A smile to a stranger.
A hello to someone who looks invisible.
Checking on a neighbor.
Feeding someone.
Offering resources.
Listening without judgment.

These small acts are spells in motion.

Influence Requires Integrity

What truly bothers me is not spiritual entrepreneurs. It is not teachers charging for workshops. It is not artists selling their creations.

It is those who build large followings in alternative spiritual communities and do absolutely nothing to uplift the world beyond their personal brand.

If people look up to you, that is responsibility.
If people see you as a spiritual leader, that is sacred weight.

You cannot preach compassion and ignore suffering.
You cannot speak of shadow work and avoid real-world darkness.
You cannot talk about divine love and never embody it.

Service grounds your spirituality.
It keeps you honest.
It keeps you human.

The Path Is Not Just About You

Spiritual growth is not self-obsession. It is not constant self-optimization. It is not collecting certifications and initiations like spiritual trophies.

The path is about becoming strong enough, wise enough, and grounded enough to be of use.

Ask yourself:
- Who benefits from my practice?
- Who is safer because I exist?
- Who feels seen because of my presence?
- How does my magic ripple outward?
If the answer is “only me,” then something is missing.

The Real Work

Being spiritual is not about appearing enlightened.

It is about embodying compassion.
It is about standing beside the marginalized.
It is about doing what you can, where you are, with what you have.

Service is not glamorous. It is not always visible. It will not always get applause.

But it is the highest form of magic.

And in my experience, it is the work that truly transforms both the giver and the world around them.
Handling Haters & Trolls: Protecting Your Energy in the Digital Age

February 19th, 2026
There is something fascinating about the internet.

It gives everyone a voice — and unfortunately, it also gives everyone a megaphone.

When you step into public work — whether as an author, teacher, spiritual practitioner, or content creator — you will encounter criticism. Some of it is valid. Some of it is constructive. And some of it… is pure noise.

Over the years, I have learned a powerful truth:

If someone feels I’ve spoken out of line, I welcome an educated conversation.
Truly.

If I am wrong, educate me.
If I have blind spots, show me.
If there is nuance I’ve missed, let’s discuss it like adults.

But what I’ve discovered is that many people don’t actually want dialogue. They want dominance. They want argument. They want reaction.

And when you offer them an intelligent exchange instead of emotional fuel, they often lose interest — or grow louder.

One of the most hilarious comments I’ve ever received was:

“I don’t need to know you. I’m a reader.”

The irony.

Claiming intuitive authority while refusing conversation is not insight — it’s ego dressed in mysticism.

People will insist they “know” you better than you know yourself.
They will project their wounds, assumptions, and unresolved narratives onto you.

But here’s the truth:

No one knows your intentions better than you.
No one knows your lived experience better than you.
And strangers on the internet certainly do not have psychic access to your inner world.

Trolls thrive on reaction.

They are not seeking understanding.
They are seeking attention.

An educated conversation requires vulnerability, curiosity, and humility.
An argument only requires adrenaline.

When you respond calmly and invite dialogue, you remove the reward structure. And without reward, most trolls fade away.

Ignoring is not weakness.
It is strategy.

As spiritual practitioners — especially those of us who are energetically sensitive — engagement is not just mental. It is energetic.

Every argument is an energetic cord.
Every reactive comment is a leak in your spiritual boundary.

You must ask yourself:

Is this conversation productive?
Is this person teachable?
Is this exchange aligned with my purpose?

If the answer is no, silence becomes sacred.

There is a difference between:
- Being corrected
- Being attacked
One invites growth.
The other invites chaos.

Discernment is key. If someone approaches you with respect and sincere curiosity, listen. Growth is part of wisdom.

But if someone approaches you with hostility masked as righteousness, understand this:

You are not obligated to entertain them.

The internet has created the illusion that everyone deserves your response.

They don’t.

Access to your time, your energy, your attention — that is earned.

Especially when your work involves spirituality, healing, or education. Your nervous system and your energetic field matter.

You do not have to defend your existence.
You do not have to debate your lived experience.
You do not have to convince strangers of your integrity.

People will always claim they “know” you.
They will always have opinions.
They will always find something to critique.

Let them.

Your responsibility is not to be universally approved.
Your responsibility is to be aligned.

If someone truly wants education, they will engage in conversation.
If they want argument, they will reveal it quickly.

Learn to discern.
Learn to disengage.
Learn to protect your peace.

And most importantly —

Keep speaking.

The right people are listening.
When the Serpent Calls: Snakes, Spirituality, and the Path of the Snake Priestess

February 4th, 2026
Across cultures, across centuries, across the veil between worlds—the serpent has always been a messenger.

Snakes appear where transformation is imminent. They emerge when old skins no longer fit, when wisdom must be embodied rather than merely learned, and when power asks to be held with reverence instead of fear. To walk with the serpent is not a passive path; it is an initiatory one.

In spirituality, the snake is a symbol of death and rebirth, liminality, healing, erotic life force, ancestral memory, and divine wisdom. It moves between worlds—earth and underworld, conscious and unconscious, life and death—without apology. The serpent teaches us how to shed without shame and how to claim power without domination.

The Call of the Serpent

Being called to work with snakes is not about fascination alone—it is about recognition.

For many, the call arrives through repetition: recurring dreams of snakes, an unexplainable draw to serpent imagery, a sense of calm rather than fear in their presence, or a deep resonance with themes of transformation and shadow work. The serpent does not whisper—it coils itself around your life until you pay attention.

When the serpent calls, it often signals:
- A period of profound personal transformation
- A need to shed old identities, wounds, or imposed narratives
- An awakening of intuitive, psychic, or embodied wisdom
- A reconnection to ancient, chthonic, or ancestral currents
- A reminder that power lives in the body—not just the mind
This is not light work. Serpent paths demand honesty, humility, and the willingness to sit with discomfort long enough for it to alchemize.

Walking the Path of the Snake Priestess

As a Snake Priestess, my work is not symbolic—it is lived, embodied, and relational. I work with snakes physically, spiritually, and energetically. They are teachers, guardians, mirrors, and allies. Through them, I’ve learned patience, presence, and the sacred intelligence of stillness.

The serpent teaches that power does not rush. It waits. It listens. It strikes only when necessary.

My priestess work is rooted in honoring serpents as sacred beings—keepers of wisdom who remind us that the divine is not always found in the heavens, but in the soil, the bones, the breath, and the slow coil of becoming.

A Message from the Guides

This morning, I donned my cobra skin necklace (shed, of course) and my snake ring. I didn’t plan it. I simply felt the need to wear them—an instinctual knowing rather than a conscious decision.

When I got into my car, something unmistakable happened.

Not one—but two serpent songs played back-to-back on my Spotify playlist.

There are no coincidences on the serpent path.

This was a nudge from my spirit guides, a confirmation and a reminder: Stay the course. The serpent energy is active, present, and speaking. When symbols align so clearly, it is an invitation to listen—not with the mind, but with the body and the soul.

The message was simple and powerful: embody your wisdom, honor your calling, and trust the shedding process. What is falling away is meant to. What remains is sacred.

Answering the Coil

To work with snakes spiritually is to accept that growth is cyclical, not linear. It is to understand that rebirth often requires discomfort, and that transformation is rarely gentle—but always purposeful.

If the serpent is appearing in your life, ask yourself:
- What am I being asked to shed?
- Where am I being called to step into my power more fully?
- What ancient wisdom is stirring within me?
The serpent does not call everyone—but when it does, it means you are ready.

And once you answer, you are never quite the same again.
On Practicing New Orleans Vodou as a White Woman: Respect, Roots, and Responsibility

February 3rd, 2026

I am a white woman who practices New Orleans Vodou.

That sentence alone is often enough to invite judgment, assumptions, and criticism from people who do not know me, my teachers, or the depth of my commitment to this tradition. So I want to speak plainly, honestly, and with humility about who I am, how I practice, and what I stand for.

I am currently in my initiatory process under Mambo Samantha Corfield, within the House of the Nine Mysteries, a legitimate New Orleans Vodou house. My relationship to this tradition is not casual, aesthetic, or performative. It is devotional, disciplined, and rooted in lineage, accountability, and service to the spirits.

New Orleans Vodou is a living tradition with deep African, Afro-Caribbean, and Creole roots. Those roots matter. They must be honored, protected, and respected—not erased, diluted, or rewritten for comfort or popularity. I fully acknowledge that this tradition was forged through enslavement, resistance, survival, and ancestral endurance. I do not separate Vodou from its history, nor do I attempt to claim ownership over something that does not belong to me.

What I call Vodou Witchcraft is my own personal spiritual framework—one that I created to describe how I integrate my long-standing background in modern Witchcraft with my ongoing, formal training in traditional New Orleans Vodou.

Vodou Witchcraft is not New Orleans Vodou.
It is not a replacement for it.

It is a personal path that exists alongside my initiatory work, not in place of it. It allows me to remain honest about where I am learning, where I am obligated, and where my personal Witchcraft practice continues to live. My Vodou practice is guided by my house, my elders, and my spirits. My Witchcraft practice is my own. Vodou Witchcraft is the name I use for the intersection of those two paths within my personal spiritual life.

I walk this path with humility. I listen more than I speak. I learn before I teach. I respect what is not mine to share. And I remain accountable—to my elders, my house, my spirits, and my conscience.

I am not unaware of my critics.

There are those who believe that Vodou should only be practiced by people of a specific race, and I understand where that pain and protectiveness comes from. Cultural exploitation and spiritual theft are real harms, and they deserve to be named and challenged. But it is also historically and presently true that New Orleans Vodou has always included people of different races within its houses and priesthoods.

There are white practitioners and clergy who have walked this path with integrity, including respected Mambos such as Mambo Komande and Sally Ann Glassman. Their presence does not erase the Black roots of Vodou; it affirms that Vodou is a house tradition, where calling, training, and acceptance are determined by the spirits and the house—not public opinion.

I do not practice in a disrespectful manner.
I do not bypass elders.
I do not remove Vodou from its cultural and historical context.
I do not claim titles I have not earned.
And I do not speak over the voices of those whose ancestors carried this tradition through oppression and survival.

Vodou is not something I dabble in.
It is something I serve.

Vodou Witchcraft, as I practice it, is about transparency, devotion, and ethical responsibility. It is about naming my personal spiritual synthesis honestly while honoring the integrity of New Orleans Vodou as its own sacred, rooted tradition.

You do not have to agree with my path.
But you should understand that it is grounded in humility, lineage, and reverence—not ego, aesthetics, or appropriation.

I stand by my teachers.
I stand by my house.
And I stand by the spirits I serve.
Reclaiming Power Through the Goddess

January 29th, 2026

In my twenties, I was at my lowest point.

I had just been diagnosed with major depression and an anxiety disorder, and everything I thought I knew about myself collapsed under the weight of it. There were days—weeks—when my anxiety was so severe I couldn’t leave my house. My chest felt tight, my thoughts raced, and the world outside my door felt hostile and impossible. Depression settled in like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating, making even basic survival feel like an act of rebellion.

I lost friendships during that time. Not because I didn’t care—but because I didn’t know how to explain what was happening inside me. Mental illness is isolating like that. People see the smiles you force, the “I’m fine” you offer, but they don’t see the darkness behind it. I learned how to hide pain behind politeness, how to appear functional while unraveling in private. I lived in survival mode, disconnected from my body, my spirit, and my sense of self.

And then, one day, something ancient stirred.

I remembered who I was.

I remembered that I was a witch.

At the core of witchcraft—long before aesthetics, labels, or trends—there is the Mother Goddess. Not the sanitized, obedient version of womanhood, but the raw, sovereign, dangerous, and nurturing force that births, destroys, protects, and transforms. The Goddess does not ask permission. She does not shrink herself to be palatable. She is.

I began turning toward goddess archetypes not as distant deities to worship, but as mirrors—as living symbols of power I had forgotten within myself.

Lilith taught me autonomy. She reminded me that independence is not selfish, that refusing to submit to what harms you is sacred. Lilith does not apologize for her boundaries, and through her I learned that choosing myself was not a failure—it was survival.

Medusa showed me that rage can be holy. She is the embodiment of a woman punished for existing in her body, then demonized for her pain. Medusa taught me that anger is not something to fear—it is a signal, a protector, a force that demands justice. Through her, I reclaimed my right to be furious, to be loud, to turn what once harmed me into armor.

Hecate met me in the darkness. She is the torchbearer at the crossroads, the guide through liminal spaces, the guardian of those who walk between worlds. In my deepest depression, Hecate reminded me that the dark is not the end—it is the womb of transformation. She taught me to trust the in-between, to honor transitions, and to see my healing not as linear, but as cyclical.

Working with goddess archetypes helped me reclaim my independence—not just financially or socially, but spiritually and emotionally. As women, we are often taught to rely on others for validation, safety, and identity. The Goddess teaches something radically different: you are already whole. Independence is not isolation—it is sovereignty. It is knowing that you can stand on your own feet and still choose connection, love, and community from a place of power rather than need.

Empowerment through the Goddess is not about pretending you are never broken. It is about understanding that even in your breaking, you are sacred.

When I embraced these archetypes, I stopped seeing myself as weak for struggling. I began to see myself as a woman walking an initiation—one that required descent before ascent. The Goddess doesn’t demand perfection; she demands truth. And in honoring her, I learned to honor myself.

If you are in the darkness right now—if you are surviving more than living—know this: your power has not left you. It is waiting. The Goddess has always lived within you, patient and fierce, ready to remind you who you are when you’re ready to remember.

And when you do?

You won’t just survive.

You will rise—sovereign, whole, and unapologetically powerful.
The Power of Making Your Own Magick

January 22nd, 2026

I was recently asked during an interview what single piece of advice I would offer a newbie witch. Without hesitation, my answer was: make your own magick. One of the very first lessons every witch must learn is this: there is no single “right” way to practice magick.

And yet, for many newbie witches, this truth can feel hard to believe.

When you’re new to the Craft, it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking you must follow a specific tradition perfectly, memorize correspondences exactly, or practice the way someone else says you should. Social media, books, and even well-meaning teachers can unintentionally make witchcraft feel rigid—like a set of rules instead of a living, breathing spiritual path.

But magick was never meant to be a cage.
Magick is meant to be a key.

Magick works best when it is deeply personal. Your energy, your experiences, your ancestors, your spirit guides, your intuition—these are the true sources of power. When you create your own magick, you’re not “doing it wrong.” You’re doing something far more potent: you’re aligning your practice with your soul.

A spell whispered in your own words often carries more power than one recited perfectly from a book. A ritual adapted to your needs will always be more effective than one performed out of obligation or fear of “messing up.”

Your path should feel like coming home—not like memorizing someone else’s map.

Spiritual growth requires trust. When newbie witches give themselves permission to experiment, explore, and adapt, they begin building confidence in their own intuition. That intuition is a muscle—one that strengthens the more you use it.

Trying things out, noticing what works and what doesn’t, listening to how your body and spirit respond—this is how real wisdom is born. Mistakes aren’t failures; they are teachers. Every misstep brings clarity. Every success reinforces your power.

When you stop asking, “Am I allowed to do this?” and start asking, “Does this feel right to me?”—that’s when transformation truly begins.

Witchcraft has always been adaptable.

Historically, folk magic evolved through necessity. Practices changed based on geography, available tools, cultural blending, and lived experience. Witches borrowed, modified, and reimagined endlessly. The idea that magick must remain frozen in time is a modern invention—not an ancestral one.

Taking what resonates, leaving what doesn’t, and making something new is not disrespectful—it’s how traditions survive.

Your path doesn’t need permission to exist.

There is profound empowerment in claiming your practice as your own. When you stop outsourcing authority over your spirituality, you reclaim your sovereignty. You no longer need validation from others to know your magick is real.

Creating your own path teaches self-reliance. It teaches discernment. It teaches you to listen—to yourself, to spirit, to the subtle currents that guide you.

And perhaps most importantly, it teaches you that you are not broken, unworthy, or lacking. You are already capable of connecting, casting, healing, protecting, and transforming.

You Are Allowed to Evolve

Your path today does not have to be your path forever.

As you grow, your magick will change—and that is not a betrayal of your beginnings. It’s a sign of spiritual maturity. Let yourself shed what no longer serves you. Let yourself outgrow labels. Let yourself experiment with joy.

Witchcraft is not about perfection.
It is about relationship—with yourself, with the unseen, and with the ever-changing current of life.

To every new witch reading this:
You are allowed to trust yourself.
You are allowed to create.
You are allowed to blend, bend, and build something uniquely yours.

Your magick does not need to look like anyone else’s to be real.

Your magick is most powerful when it looks like you.
How Witchcraft Saved My Life

January 7th, 2026

There was a time when I didn’t know if I would survive myself.

I don’t mean that dramatically—I mean that in the quiet, heavy way where you wake up every day carrying grief, fear, anger, and exhaustion like stones in your chest. I was taught, like many women, to be small. To wait. To depend. To hope someone else would rescue me, validate me, or make things better.

Growing up, I was deeply insecure. I was bullied often. I was the strange girl—the weird one. The girl who never quite fit in, no matter how hard she tried. I always felt like the girl on the outside looking in, pressing my face to the glass of a world that didn’t seem to have a place for me. I raised my voice again and again, trying to be heard in a crowd full of people, yet somehow always felt invisible.

I was surrounded by others, but profoundly alone. No one seemed to understand me, and for a long time, I didn’t understand myself either. I spent so much of my life trying to belong—trying to be palatable, acceptable, normal—trying to fit into spaces that were never meant to hold me.

Witchcraft did not rescue me.

Witchcraft taught me how to rescue myself.

When I found my way to the Craft, it wasn’t about aesthetics or trends. It was about survival. It was about taking my power back when I had been taught to hand it over again and again—to partners, to authority, to expectations, to fear. Witchcraft gave me something I had never been encouraged to claim before: agency.

Through ritual, I learned that I am not helpless.
Through spellwork, I learned that intention matters.
Through devotion, I learned that I am not alone—but I am also not meant to be dependent.

The gods and goddesses did not teach me submission. They taught me sovereignty.

They taught me that strength does not mean hardness. That power does not mean dominance. That being a strong woman means standing in your truth even when your voice shakes, even when the world tells you to be quieter, softer, more agreeable.

Witchcraft taught me to listen—to really listen.

To my intuition.
To my body.
To my dreams.
To my ancestors.
To my spirit guides who whispered when I was too afraid to speak.

I learned that intuition is not imagination. It is memory. It is knowing. It is the voice that survives even when everything else is stripped away. The more I trusted it, the louder and clearer it became. The more I honored it, the more it protected me.

I stopped looking outside myself for permission.

I stopped waiting for someone else to decide my worth.

Witchcraft taught me independence—not isolation, but self-trust. It taught me that I could call on divine forces, yes, but that magick flows through me, not around me. That I am a participant in creation, not a bystander to my own life.

It taught me that being a strong woman doesn’t mean never needing help—it means knowing when to ask, when to stand alone, and when to walk away.

It taught me boundaries.
It taught me protection.
It taught me how to transmute pain into power.

And perhaps most importantly, witchcraft taught me that survival can be sacred.

That healing doesn’t always look gentle.
That transformation often comes through fire.
That I am allowed to change, shed, evolve, and become.

Witchcraft didn’t just save my life.

It gave me ownership of it.

And that is a power no one can ever take from me again.

The Courage of Anne Hutchinson

The Voice of Achsa Sprague

The Blood That Shapes Us

Ancestor Veneration Across Cultures

Why Honoring Our Ancestors Matters

Walking With the Dead

Spirituality Without Service Is Performance

The Forgotten as Sacred

Service Is the Backbone of Magic

Influence Requires Integrity

The Path Is Not Just About You

The Real Work

One of the most hilarious comments I’ve ever received was:

The Call of the Serpent

Walking the Path of the Snake Priestess

A Message from the Guides

Answering the Coil

There was a time when I didn’t know if I would survive myself.