Ever since, my Facebook feed has been inundated with all kinds of takes on her demise. Some people are celebrating her life and mourning her death, while others are mourning her life and celebrating her death. Some people see her as a feminist icon who ruled an entire country in her own right and took no shit, while many understandably see her as a symbol of the British monarchy and imperialism. And yet, some people are lavishing in the moment Princess Di greets her at the pearly gates with a brick. Needless to say, like most world leaders, Queen Elizabeth was a divisive character.
I think she was all these things. And most importantly, I think she was — hear me out — Just Some Guy™.
People love to sort each other into Good Guys™ and Bad Guys™. We’ve become more polarized in recent years, thanks to an uptick in political fervor brought on by populist leaders like Trump, but it’s always been a thing. We human beings love our black and white morality. You’re for us, or against us. And in certain things, I’m prone to agree. You can’t be a Nazi and a Good Guy, for example. If you ascribe to that ideology, you’re automatically in the Bad Guy category. There’s not a lot of people who are unambiguously Good Guys, but—
Okay, there are a few.
Anyways, back to Queen Lizzy. She did some really dope things, like getting off her royal highness and serving in the military during WWII as a frickin princess. Yes, she was a princess who worked to aid the effort to fight literal Nazis, who we have established to be absolutely, 100 percent Bad Guys.
Cinderella would never.
At the same time, she was complicit as the British Empire committed many atrocities against other countries. Plenty has already been written about how shitty Britain has been throughout history. I mean, what do you expect from a country that’s tried to take over the world? I say this as someone who is of primarily British descent. Most Americans get to brag about cool stuff their ancestors’ countries did. Me? Nothing but imperialism and some dope ass rock music, which, in all fairness, was “borrowed” from black American musicians. So really, just imperialism.
The point is, everyone sucks. The queen sucked. Trump sucks. Biden sucks. Freddie Mercury sucked. My mom sucks. I suck. And at the same time, we all do really cool stuff (except Nazis, because fuck them). That’s all part of this thing called being human. We’re all magic moving sentient carbon lumps, and there’s nothing wrong with that. All we can do is reduce the amount of sucky things we do and try to do more cool stuff. Learn from other’s mistakes and try to be a better person.
There’s no Good Guys or Bad Guys, for the most part. Just Some Guys, and the queen? Definitely Some Guy.
It’s been almost two years since my life-changing diagnosis of ADHD. Suddenly, all of the issues that had plagued me my entire life made a whole lot of sense. I wasn’t stupid — I was neurodivergent, and in learning the true nature of my big dumb brain, I learned to embrace the parts of my neurological difference that made me, well, me. As much as I hated how my brain worked at times, I came to see my ADHD as a sort of blessing/curse, the same way Mei from Turning Red learned to love the red panda she turned into whenever she experienced emotions.
ADHD doesn’t come with a fursona, sadly.
Today, I found out one of my favorite professors had been diagnosed with ADHD over the summer, and just like that, my entire perspective of her changed — she was me! And as someone who aspires to be a professor of music therapy someday, seeing someone in that position who has what I have and is successful was really reassuring. It was like someone patted me on the shoulder and said “Hey Jess, this can be you someday.” And it felt really frickin’ cool, yo.
And it hit me — I’m that to someone. Somewhere out there, some aspiring musician or writer or college student is trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with them, why they can’t sit down and practice or write or study or do much of anything without getting sidetracked. Maybe they think they’re just stupid, too. And it’s my turn to show them that they, too, can be successful with ADHD. I believe everything happens for a reason, and perhaps my “curse” is intended to be used as a blessing for others, just like how Mei’s ancestors used the red panda to protect their loved ones.
I won’t lie and pretend I have it all together. I’m still working on getting my shit together. I think most people are, if we’re honest with ourselves. No one has it 100 percent figured out at any given time. All I know is I have nearly three decades of life experience with this brain of mine, so I’ve learned some tricks on how to utilize it. Here is part one of my “owner’s manual” for ADHD.
#1: You have ADHD
Duh.
You have ADHD. You. Have. ADHD. That’s not going to change. Your brain is wired differently from most of the world, and nothing can change the way it works. Barring a lobotomy or something, but that will cause more problems than it solves, ya know? There’s a reason we don’t do those anymore.
They say the first step of recovery is acceptance. The fifth step in grief is also acceptance, so get all your feelies out. Journal about it. Bring it up in therapy. Punch something that can be punched (not a person or other sentient creature, preferably). But as soon as you come to terms with the fact that you have ADHD, you can start working toward really living with it.
There is no cure for ADHD. There are treatments to make it more manageable, sure, but there are no cures. Yoga will not cure ADHD. Walking outside will not cure ADHD. Essential oils will not cure ADHD. Heck, Adderall doesn’t even cure ADHD, and it’s literally an ADHD medication. Full disclosure: I use all of the things I listed to help me concentrate and ground myself, but guess what? I still have ADHD, and everything that comes with it.
That’s not a bad thing though!
You see, in music therapy school, and presumably training for all other types of therapy, there’s a push for “person first language” and saying someone has a condition, rather than is it. It’s a way of separating the person from the condition. But I don’t like that for my ADHD. It’s a disability, sure, but it’s also a huge part of my personality and being. It’s like how the autistic community is reclaiming “autistic,” declaring “I am autistic,” rather than saying “I have autism.” In that same vein, I am ADHD. ADHD is a inseparable from me. For better or worse, it’s a piece of me, and nothing will change that.
When I was in junior high, I briefly had the nickname Bubbles, before my classmates latched onto “Salisbury Steak” and later, simply “Steak.” If you knew me at all in high school, you’d know why a meat-inspired moniker was hilariously weird for a girl like me. I wasn’t particularly muscly or threatening or beefy. I was the Ute and wholesome little blonde-haired church girl who would probably cry if someone said something remotely mean to her. I would have considered myself more of a marshmallow than a steak.
But I digress. The point is, for a very brief time, I was nicknamed Bubbles, after the Powerpuff Girl, natch.
You could have put this picture in the yearbook under my name and no one would have questioned it.
In a lot of ways, I was Bubbles. I was always the adorable, innocent, naive one. I liked cute things and candy and stuffed animals. I had the blonde-hair blue-eyed ingenue look. I could talk to animals (although they seldom talked back to me). And when flanked by my two wildly badass siblings, I looked like an absolute creampuff.
A lot has changed since then. I’ve been through a lot. I’m not innocent by any measure. My style has shifted through the years, but I’m certainly not the tiny blonde Precious Moments figurine I used to be.
Unless that Precious Moments figurine had a late-20s big titty goth gf phase.
Still, I find myself feeling like Bubbles quite often. Even though I’ve been hardened by age, I’m still quite sensitive and wishy-washy and admittedly kind of a crybaby. Perhaps it’s the Pisces in me. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m the youngest. All I know is I don’t want to be that way anymore. I know I have badass potential. Enter my Bubblevicious moment. If you don’t remember that particular episode, let this jog your memory:
Sometimes you need to decide to be badass, and that’s where I am. I know what I’m doing isn’t working for me. I don’t have the mental or physical strength I want to have.
Enter the Live Hard challenge.
I’ve said in my previous post that I’m not a huge fan of Andy Frisella for reasons that should be pretty obvious, but I’m also not a huge fan of throwing the baby out with the bath water. And frankly, his Live Hard program is legit. I’m on my second day of following the 75 Hard ruleset, and I already fee significantly better. Because I am ADHD as all hell and need to keep myself accountable somehow, I decided to post my updates on here. Here are my observations so far:
1. Stick to a diet.
This is probably the hardest one for me, because the diet I chose is intermittent fasting, and I work weird hours. I decided on noon to 8 p.m. for my eating window, and I’m just going to pray every night that my coworkers didn’t bring in a pizza to share. So far though, I’m doing alright. I got a little antsy toward the end of my fast earlier today, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Plus, my Adderall makes me crave food less. I’m allowing unsweetened coffee and tea during my fasting hours as well, so that’s helping a bit, although I didn’t realize consuming caffeine on an empty stomach wreaks this much havoc on your digestive system.
As in, this entire post so far has been written on the toilet.
2. No alcohol.
This is probably the easiest one because I quit drinking a few months back. In fact, I’m officially almost four months sober. Small victories, y’all.
3. Two 45 minute workouts a day, one being outside.
This has been probably deceptively easy so far, and I’m no doubt going to eat my words in a few days when DOMS sets in.
Not the kind of doms I’m referring to, but you could argue that it, too, hurts so good.
I’m already starting to feel some of the delayed soreness in my arms, so I’m trying to keep my vision of Badass Jess in my head. This pain will eventually become muscle, and then I too can become an intimidating dominatrix— I mean, a completely wholesome but buff woman that definitely does not engage in BDSM.
Except my Bible Study/Discussion Meetings.
My workouts so far have been a half hour of biking following by fifteen minutes of weight training for the indoor portion, and a 45 minute walk around the neighborhood for the outdoor portion. My wife has been very much on board with taking daily walks, and our talks during these lengthy walks have been doing wonders for both of our mental health issues and our relationship as a whole. I’ll probably want to up the ante in a while to something a bit more strenuous, like biking or jogging, but I’m kind of loving these little walks with my girl.
4. Read 10 pages of nonfiction/self-help/something that will make you suck less as a person.
Ah, yes, my favorite part of the challenge, and a big reason I decided to take it on. I love this idea, and I went above and beyond assembling a set of books to navigate through in the next few months. I’m starting by alternating between two titles that are relevant to my struggles with ADHD — Decluttering at the Speed of Life by Dana K. White, and You Need a Budget by Jesse Mecham. So far, I’ve been killing this part of the challenge, reading more than required daily just because I’m hooked. Honestly, I forgot how much I love reading, especially nonfiction books, and these particular titles are helping quite a bit already. I’ll probably review them on here once I’m finished with them. Next up on my list is How to Win Friends and Influence People in the Digital Age by Dale Carnegie and The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, although I admit I cheated a bit and parsed through parts of them already. I guess it’s better to read too much than not enough.
5. Drink a gallon of water.
I lied. This is probably the easiest part of the challenge for me, and strangely enough, it seems to be the hardest for everyone else. I don’t know why I just drink so much water naturally. Was I a camel in a past life? Who knows.
I’d kill for those lashes, though.
6. Take a progress pic daily.
I’ve taken my pictures, and I’m not gonna lie, I always remember to do this when I’m about to jump in the bath and have already disrobed. So my first two days are a bit NSFW. I’ve already exceeded my spicy limit for this post, so I won’t be sharing them here. That’s for my OnlyFans.
And this is my only fan.
I’ll take a clothed progress pic tomorrow probably and share it here eventually. But the official first and second day pics are for my eyes only. Gotta leave something to the imagination, ya know?
So that’s a quick rundown of how things are going. I’ll continue updating everyone on my progress, if only to keep myself accountable. But honestly, I’m excited to become less of a Bubbles and more of a Steak, and I think I’m off to a good start on my journey to beefy goodness.
Sometimes I wonder if wide-eyed 17-year-old me would be happy with the direction my life has taken. After all, at that point, I was in the best shape of my life, earning straight A’s, serving as colorguard captain AND class president, and full of ambition to become the best version of myself. In fact, I remember how I was so determined to become the best performer in my dance class, I’d practice for an hour in front of the mirror every night. I had so much motivation, so much drive. I had every intention of bursting through those high school doors and jumping into a life as a music therapist, professor, creator, and business owner.
Without going into too much of a “woe is me” spiel, things haven’t exactly turned out the way I wanted. After changing my major, dropping out of college twice due to then-undiagnosed ADHD, and letting my mental and physical health slip farther than ever, I feel like teenage me would cry if she met present me.
Something needs to change.
Rina Sawayama’s “Hold the Girl” is a love letter to her younger self, and I remember the first time I heard the lyrics. REALLY heard them. I felt little Jess looking back at me sadly as Rina sang the lines “Sometimes I get down with guilt/For the promises I’ve broken to my younger self.” I’ve let myself fall so far from where I was.
That’s why I’m taking action. I’m not letting myself sink any further. I want little Jess to be proud of me. I want her to be excited to grow into this woman I’ve become. So I’m deciding to be better.
Here’s my plan, inspired by Andy Frisella’s 75 Hard challenge. Despite him kind of being a dumbass (like, Trumper and antivax-level dumbassery), his challenge has a lot of substance. Follow a diet (I’m choosing intermittent fasting), two 45 minute workouts a day, no alcohol, one gallon of water a day, and read ten pages of nonfiction or self-improvement literature daily. I need a holistic plan of action like this one to get me out of this rut I’m in, and I’m sharing this plan and my progress on my blog to keep me accountable.
In short, I’m not going to sit back and be content to suck anymore. She wouldn’t want me to.
2022 so far has been a year of releasing things that no longer serve me. I started by giving up vaping, then alcohol. Next on the shit list is overeating, which will be a lot easier to address after we move to an apartment that isn’t surrounded by every fast food establishment known to man.
Also known as the DANGER ZONE
But perhaps my biggest vice isn’t something I do, but something I don’t do — the damn thing. As in, the stuff I actually want to do with this life.
I’ve grown so complacent with numbing myself with video games and YouTube binges that I’ve let go of a lot of my creative endeavors. To be fair to myself, I hide away in these frivolous things to escape from the stresses of work and school, and it’s healthy to indulge in mindless fun every now and then, but it’s still not an excuse to let my projects languish. Someday when I’m dead, my long-abandoned Sims or virtual farm won’t matter. What will matter is the work I leave behind, and right now, that output is pretty abysmal.
I’ve had part one of my story — THE story — finished for about half a year now. I’ve been working to get this out for more than a decade, and I finally finished it, only to wuss out and not actually publish it. Why? Part of the problem is I’m scared it’s no one’s going to like my story or even care enough to read it, but to be honest, an even bigger part of the problem is how I’m just to lazy to do much of anything.
WHO’S THAT POKÉMON? IT’S PROCRASTINATION!
So I’m resolving to keep writing, even when it’s hard. Even when I don’t feel like it. Because I don’t want to leave this planet someday without putting my stories out there. The saddest stories are the ones that never get told.
That being said, keep checking back here, because I’m going to post what I write on this very site. You may have noticed I switched the name of the blog again, this time to my own name. That’s because I’m intending this blog to be a repository of all my writing from now on, fiction and nonfiction alike. If you follow me for my posts on mental health and spirituality, don’t fret — I’m still going to post things on those topics from time to time. But I’m especially excited to share my story with everyone, once and for all. It’s been a part of me and my imagination for so long, and I’m ready to see it come to fruition.
It’s scary to put my writing out there, and it’ll take a lot of dedication and hard work, but I know I need to finally do the damn thing.
It’s a question I get asked a lot, especially during sandal season, when my little anchor tattoo is clearly visible on my left foot. It’s the symbol I chose to represent my blog, my business, and my spirituality as a whole. But where did my obsession with anchors originate, and why are they so special — dare I say, sacred — to me?
It helps to know a little about the traditional symbolism. In sailor culture, tattoos were popular long before they made their way onto the lower backs of even the most demure housewife. To these seafarers, the anchor represented stability. A sailor often got an anchor tattoo for a special lady, typically a lover or his mother, to remind him of the love and security he has waiting for him back home.
Additionally, the anchor is associated with bodies of water, to which I’ve always felt a connection to. I’ve lived near the same river for a majority of my life, and being a Pisces, the element holds a spiritual importance to me. The shape of the anchor resembles a cross, which is significant to me as well, as my Christian-rooted beliefs play no small part in my personal spiritual practices.
But believe it or not, it goes even deeper than that.
I remember briefly dating a fellow musician my freshman year of college. He was someone I admired greatly, and still do, for his musicianship as well as his humility. He would tell me about how he made music for other people, simply because he loved the way it made them happy. Music was more than just his hobby or his job. It was the way he connected with others, and he viewed it as something of a sacred duty to use his talents to spread joy. His band used a lot of anchors in their symbolism as well, representing humility and groundedness. He never wanted to lose sight of why he did what he did. He never wanted music to become a selfish act.
That philosophy really resonated with me, especially as a music therapist-in-training, and despite the relationship ending, I held fast to the wisdom he had shared. Music — and all my creative endeavours for that matter — now held a deeper meaning to me, and I adopted the anchor as a symbol of staying humble and remembering why I do what I do. Getting that tattoo, my first tattoo for that matter, was my way of making sure I always had that reminder to put others first in all things. Music and life in general shouldn’t be about getting famous or hitting it big. It should be about leaving the world a brighter place than how you found it.
No matter how far I sail in this life, I won’t forget or forsake the people and places I hold dear. May everything I do reflect a heart of humility and love.
A few nights ago was the new moon, which apparently is a great time to like, do intention setting rituals and whatnot. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — I’m pretty skeptical when it comes to this stuff, but choosing a goal or vision to work on for a month does tickle the science part of my brain. Besides, I have ADHD. This is the kind of structure I need in my life.
“Jess getting her shit together for once” will take all the magic in the universe.
The new moon is in Leo, which is a thing I don’t know a lot about, but I guess it’s a good time to do creative things. There’s supposed to be a lot of big, bombastic energy surrounding this moon, which is perfect for the average glam rock frontwoman trying to manifest her band’s success. Additionally, I found out when I was researching my birth chart that my moon sign is Leo. Coincidence? Realistically, yes. But I’d like to believe there’s something special there. I’m a frickin’ lion baby, and you’re gonna hear me roar.
Cue that annoying Katy Perry song.
My lovely wife, Crass, has been mostly supportive of my magical endeavors (albeit she’s a bit annoyed with how many essential oils and herbs I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks). Although she’s Jewish by birth and generally agnostic, she’s always felt drawn to the witchy side of life. So for this new moon, she decided to join me for an intention setting ritual.
Here’s what all was involved:
– “road opener” candle I got from this dope metaphysical store downtown (supposedly opens new opportunities)
– bay leaves
– citrine crystal necklace
– cedar smudge stick
– a black Sharpie
We started by assembling a makeshift altar on the balcony and smudging the air around it. It was a beautiful summer night, and considering it was dark out, we decided to go out naked as the day we were born. I didn’t bother to look up whether nudity affected the magic at all. Once we were settled in, we light the candle and said a few words. Our incantation was as follows:
Holy powers that be
Ignite a spark in me
Bring success to my art
And creativity to my heart
After reciting the incantation, we scribbled the names of our artistic projects — my band’s name and her art business’s name — on a pair of bay leaves using the marker. We then placed the leaves into the flame, envisioning our prayers being sent up to the heavens along with the smoke. Around that time, I took her hand, and we started daydreaming aloud about what our hopes and visions were for our respective endeavors. It felt nice, dreaming about the future with her. Somehow, it made the evening even more magical. At the end, we brought the candle inside and let it burn on the kitchen table, but not before holding the necklace we had in the smoke. The plan was for her to wear the necklace to art shows and me to wear it to my band’s gigs, as a reminder of our intentions.
It feels silly at times, but I really do get a sense of peace from performing rituals like this, like I have a sense of control over my destiny. Suddenly, my dreams of making it in music don’t seem so lofty. It gives me perspective. Perhaps this magic stuff is baloney, but I think there’s some substance to it after all. It’s retraining your brain to see your full potential and focus on achieving what you need to achieve. Maybe it just takes burning a couple of leaves to finally tame my ADHD. So mote it be.
If you haven’t read my last blog post, I’ve been dabbling in witchy shit as of late. It’s been interesting experimenting with herbs and oils and crystals and whatnot and seeing what works. Like I mentioned in my previous post, I tend to approach everything with a sense of skepticism. I like to weigh things against actual proven science. But sometimes, you just have to do something because it feels right. Because you don’t have any scientific way to fight the crushing weight of impermanence and mortality. My Prozac has worked wonders for a lot of my mental health issues, but there’s still that looming feeling of “I am going to die and be forgotten someday” that permeates everything I do.
It’s been a fear of mine ever since I was incredibly young — yes, I, as a sweet, innocent little girl, constantly perseverated on death. I have distinct memories of clutching my Bible and praying there was something after “the end.” It’s persisted to this day, and to be honest, it’s probably gotten louder, considering I’m closer to death now than I was as a child. I’ve noticed my brain tends to dwell on the idea that nothing lasts forever. I prepare for the end of things before they’re even over and can’t seem to live in the moment, because all I can think about is “this is going to end.” It’s not all about death, but it tends to circle back around to death eventually. Take for example my relationships. They might not work out, which is a scary enough thought, but then the thought occurs — what if they do? It’s still going to end someday. Someone’s gonna die first. And it’s going to kill me.
I remember reading something about how people are forgotten in only a few generations. Think about it. How much do you really know about your great-grandma? And someday when you have children of your own, will you tell them in extensive detail about your grandpa? You can only keep a memory alive for so long. The film Coco hit me on several levels. For one, it was the push I needed to get back into music therapy. But the scene where a dead man literally fades away as his family finally forgets him completely ruined me. It hit me that that will happen to me someday. I feel like it’s been a huge motivator in me being creative, since I want to leave something behind after I die, but the flip side is the amount of dread it places in my heart. It gets overwhelming to think about sometimes, and it’s been especially bad these past few weeks.
So, at my wit’s end, I decided to perform a banishing ritual to send my fears surrounding death into the abyss, once and for all. If you have similar fears to me, maybe try this little ritual and see how you feel afterwards.
You’ll need:
-a black candle
-frankincense and myrrh oils
-something to carve a word into the candle
Try to perform this ritual during a waning moon, since that’s the best time to get rid of the stuff that’s bringing you down. Start by purifying your space however you feel comfortable (I used my cedar smudge stick). Get out your black candle and place it in a safe space. The color black is used traditionally for protection and banishing negativity. With your chosen utensil, carve a word that represents your fear into the candle. I chose “dread,” but feel free to use whatever speaks to you. Anoint the candle with frankincense and myrrh. These oils are significant in my Christian tradition as the gifts the wise men brought Jesus as a baby, and for good reason. They’re symbolic of death, spirituality, and holiness. They seemed like the natural choice for this ritual for that reason. Light the candle and keep it in a safe place to burn out naturally, and meditate on the word you wrote melting away.
It’s worth noting here that my practice is rooted primarily in my Christian beliefs. So when I performed this myself, I used the time the candle was burning to talk to God, and I feel like He gave me a lot of insight on why the thought of being forgotten scared me so much. I felt like I was being convicted in my own elevated sense of self-importance. Why do I feel so strongly about being remembered for something? Shouldn’t I be working on staying humble and showing kindness to those around me? Aren’t there more important things in life than being a name in the history books? Jesus Himself said it best in the Parable of the Wedding Banquet:
When you are invited to a wedding banquet, do not sit in the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited. Then the host who invited both of you will come and tell you, ‘Give this man your seat.’ And in humiliation, you will have to take the last place. But when you are invited, go and sit in the last place, so that your host will come and tell you, ‘Friend, move up to a better place.’ Then you will be honored in front of everyone at the table with you. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”
Luke 14: 8-11
Perhaps you’re of a different religious tradition, which is fine. I created this ritual to be something anyone of any faith can participate in, though your conversation with your spirit or deity will likely differ from mine. What’s important, however, is that you meditate on why you’re afraid of what you’re afraid of, and listen closely for insight on how to deal with those feelings. But one universal truth did come to me while I was praying and meditating, a simple affirmation.
I accept the flow of life.
People change, circumstances change, relationships change, and eventually, you will die. We all will die. But that’s okay. As an animated lion once said, we’re all part of the circle of life, and we all need to come to terms with that eventually. What matters now is how we treat each other. Love begets more love, and that will remain long after we are gone.
I started researching my family history during the lockdown. Genealogy is an endeavor my cousin beat me to, though, so I asked her some questions about our ancestors. Turns out, we’re descended from Appalachian witches! You see, before there were doctors in the remote areas of the mountains, wisened granny witches would serve as both apothecaries and spiritual leaders in the community. And it made sense — there were some weird things my family did that I never realized were weird, like being able to tell when a rainstorm was coming by the leaves and using tobacco as an antidote to insect stings. I guess normal families don’t rip up a cigarette and apply it to their child’s feet when they step on a bee.
SCREW URGENT CARE.
One thing that struck me as interesting was the fact that these Appalachian witches drew inspiration from the pagan traditions from the British Isles where they once originated, the indigenous traditions of the folks they often intermixed with, and, to my surprise, Christianity! You can be a Christian and a witch?
It makes sense when you throw out the demon-summoning, hex-casting preconceptions people often have about witchcraft and break it down into what it really is — taking charge of your own spirituality. It’s sitting on your bathroom floor with nothing but a candle and praying directly to your higher power. It’s going against the grain of organized religion and interacting with a god or a spirit by yourself, without the interference of a church or priest or pastor. And that’s what spirituality should be, in my humble opinion — a very personal affair, and one that’s unique to you. Everyone has their own interpretations of their sacred scriptures, and while it is wise to seek counsel from people you admire spiritually, no one should have the power to tell you what to believe. The second you succumb to dogma, you check your brain at the door. This is how dangerous groupthink and cults start.
The second you succumb to dogma, you check your brain at the door.
So how can a witch be Christian? Part of witchcraft is communing with a spirit guide of your choice, whoever speaks to you. Some witches work with members of the Roman or Greek parthenon, some with ancient Egyptian or Celtic deities, and others with fae or other spirits. I just happen to believe in the God of the Abrahamic faiths, specifically the Trinity, or the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (who I often interpret as the personification of wisdom, who is often characterized as feminine). So when I mix together oils to anoint a candle, or hold a crystal that’s supposedly imbued with a virtue I want to manifest, or use my cedar smudge stick to purify my spaces, that is the deity whom I am consulting. Additionally, Christianity and witchy spiritual practices are often intertwined in various cultures. Look at Haitian voodoo, Dia de los Muetos, and, most personally to me, the Appalachian spiritual tradition. Even a lot of standard Christian traditions are essentially witchcraft under a different name. Consecrating bread and wine and consuming to honor a deity? That’s witchy as heck, man.
The Pope: Head Witch In Charge
Full disclosure: I’ve always been a skeptic, even when it comes to Christianity in and of itself. I don’t claim to know everything, and I think it’s foolish to assert that any human has all the answers to the big spiritual questions. If we could understand our God, He wouldn’t be God. Part of embarking on a spiritual journey is accepting you’ll never know everything, and the truth is, this could all be bunk. But I know my spiritual practices give me a sense of inner peace, so even if I’m praying to absolute nobody in the end, the mental and emotional benefits I receive from my practice are worth it. And a lot of “witchy” practices are rooted in things like self-care and intention setting, which are helpful to me as the proud owner of the absolute worst case of ADHD my therapist has ever seen. If burning a candle or holding some rock gives me that extra motivation to create and do what I love, so be it. I’ll gladly psyche my brain into doing what I want it to do for once.
So that’s a little overview of where my beliefs and spiritual journey have been leading me lately. I’ll share some of my rituals and advice on this blog in upcoming posts. Until then, peace out, y’all. I’m off to eat unsuspecting meddling children and absorb their energy to maintain my eternal youth. The usual, you know?
I’ll admit, a big part of me taking a whole year off of updating this website is because I’ve lacked inspiration. This past Christmas, I lost my childhood best friend to cancer. We’d planned on starting a ministry together and reaching into communities who are often looked down upon and neglected. She had such a heart for Christ and for people, and her death damn near killed any faith I had left in God. I was about to give up and stop calling myself a Christian altogether. What kind of loving deity would ruthlessly steal away of a young mother and community leader in the prime of her life? I knew in my heart she wouldn’t want me to give up my faith over her, but it pained me every day seeing notifications for the Instagram we started and reliving memories of our innocent youths together.
Something bizarre happened the other day, though, that made me reconsider everything. It’s important to realize that when it comes to the church I grew up in, The Church That Shall Not Be Named, the one thing they did right was music. The youth group worship team were essentially celebrities, and being a young musician myself, I admired the members as if they were rock stars. They were hugely influential to me, both musically and spiritually. Even after I left the wildly problematic TCTSNBN, I could never bring myself to talk bad about the music and musicians there.
Then, I saw something on my Facebook feed that made my jaw practically unhinge itself and drop to the floor.
You see, a few days ago, the lead singer and worship leader of that band came out as a trans woman and opened up about how she’d been forced to hide that part of herself.
I was floored. And even more surprisingly, people were so amazingly supportive of her.
The thing is, I don’t know all the details, and I won’t pretend to know them all, but her coming out led to a chain reaction of people who’d left TCTSNBN also opening up about how they’d been hurt by the church and forced to hide who they were, myself included. We all banded together and shared our pain and our triumphs since leaving. And it made me realize something.
There is a large group of Christians — many of whom are queer — who have been excluded from the church. And we shouldn’t be silenced any longer.
I foresee a schism happening, where LGBTQ+ Christians and their allies break off and start their own movement. And I want to be a part of that. Christianity needs a revolution. It’s been co-opted by rich, straight, cis, white men who have no interest in serving anyone but themselves. But Jesus didn’t come for the people in power. He came for the oppressed, for the folks who had been beaten down and ostracized by society. He came for women, for queer folks, for black and brown people, for the poor and needy. It’s absolutely shameful how some “Christians” use their power to oppress others in the name of God, when we should be breaking chains in His name instead.
Chelsea wouldn’t have stood for it, and neither will I. The best thing I can do in her memory is to keep fighting the good fight, to keep posting and sharing my story and the stories of people like me.
JESSA JOYCE 