I didn’t choose the broomstick. It chose me.
Here is the truth: magic is not about power. It’s about attention. To notice the spider weaving its geometry at dawn. To honor the bone, the root, the ache, the ancestor. To speak a blessing over a broken heart because you know—you know —that even ruins can bloom. confesiones de una bruja
Light a candle tonight. Speak your own hidden truth into the flame. And if the wind answers back in a language you almost understand—don’t run. I didn’t choose the broomstick
So here is my final confession: I am not a witch because I hex. I am a witch because I heal. I forgive. I remember. I stand at the crossroads with a lantern for anyone who has ever felt like the odd thorn in a garden of roses. It’s about attention
People expect cauldrons, curses, and midnight cackles. They expect a woman made of malice and moonlight, someone who bartered her soul for a black cat and a pointed hat. But my confession is far simpler—and far stranger.
I am not a villain. I am a midwife, a gardener, a keeper of thresholds. I brew tea for fevers, not poison for enemies. I tie red ribbons to doorframes to invite love, not to bind anyone’s will. But the world has always feared what it cannot own. So I learned to keep my confessions quiet, like seeds buried in winter soil.
Yes, I have spoken to the dead. Not to command them, but because they were lonely. Yes, I have drawn circles in the dirt, not to summon demons, but to remember that I am made of star stuff and silt. And yes, I have danced naked under a full moon—not for spectacle, but because shame is a cage, and the body deserves to praise the dark without apology.