Witch, its been rough

So there I was in high school, innocently summoning spirits in my room (aka lighting Bath & Body Works candles and listening to pop punk like I was in mourning), when the Great Revelation hit me like a curse from the fae realm:

“I think I might be bisexual…”

Cue thunder. Cue inner monologue screaming:

“IT ALL MAKES SENSE. This is why Callie Torres lives rent-free in my head. She is me. This is what I’m feeling.”

Naturally, I assumed it was a phase. A spooky, mysterious, soft grunge phase.

Spoiler alert: it was not.

Coming out to myself was the easy part. But I decided to stay in the closet.

Not because it was cozy.

Not because it had snacks.

But because I was terrified of disrupting the fragile mortal realm with my truth:

That I was undeniably, unapologetically, bisexual. 🖤🌈

But instead of bursting out in a glitter cloud like the fabulous spell-slinger I truly was… I sat in there. For years. Organizing my emotional trauma like color-coded spell jars.

And lesbi-honest—it wasn’t even a nice closet.

No walk-in. No mood lighting. Just internalized shame, heteronormativity, and the faint, ever-present smell of Axe body spray from all the boys I pretended to only like.

Like any good closeted witch, I sat quietly in sanctuary—hands folded, heart trembling, hiding the spark I hadn’t yet named.

Ah yes, the church. That wholesome place where I learned all about “love,” “grace,” and how I was definitely going to hell for existing.

I overheard conversations that hit like hexes:

“God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”

“Love like that is a sin.”

Oh cool, thanks Brenda. I’ll just quietly implode now.

How could I keep showing my face in a place that made it so painfully clear: I wasn’t welcome?

Newsflash: you can’t just “pray the gay away.”

I couldn’t be “saved.”

And the place I once thought was my refuge had shapeshifted into my anxiety attack trigger.

Still in the closet through college. Still waiting. Still not ready.

And then… I got the most devastating news:

My mom was sick.

Not “you’ll feel better in a few days” sick.

The kind of sick where the world gets small—hospital rooms, whispered prayers, the sound of machines beeping through the night.

And in that space… coming out just didn’t feel brave.

It felt complicated.

It wasn’t shame anymore. But I found myself locking that part of me away again.

All my energy was spent trying to keep her okay.

Coming out felt like a distraction.

What if she didn’t get better because I selfishly made something about me?

(Trauma logic. Witch brain. You get it.)

[Side note: the full story with my mom will have its own post—it deserves that space. But yes, I did lose her.]

Eventually, though… I cracked. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I looked in the mirror, conjured a little courage spell, and whispered:

“Surprise, witches. I’m bisexual.”

Was I proud? Yes.

Was I brave? Also yes.

Did I come out via text because speaking it out loud made me cry every time?

Absolutely.

The anxiety was crushing. But my family—who knows me and how I operate—met me with love, grace, and full acceptance.

It took time. It wasn’t one big magical reveal. But I finally did it. I was tired of hiding a piece of myself.

Sure, there are people who don’t approve. But guess what?

The door is right there.

So if you’re still in the closet? No shame, babe. Just remember: it’s not a prison. It’s a waiting room. Light a candle, take your time, and when you’re ready—

Kick the door down in your Doc Martens and make your entrance legendary.