Witch, its been rough

One deceptively charming Spring day – birds chirping like they’d been bribed by the Fates, and flowers blooming as if Persephone hadn’t just left them for dead six months ago – my mom decided to wage war against the suburban hellscape (she tried to weed the yard). Naturally, the universe, with its impeccable sense of timing and flair for drama, responded in kind: she threw out her back.

Just your average celestial punishment for daring to engage in lawn care.

Fast-forward through months of physical therapy that had all the effectiveness of a healing crystal in a dumpster fire. She was still limping around like a Victorian ghost with trauma and unresolved resentment. I, being the ever-helpful daughter (read: sarcastic and increasingly annoyed), kept reminding her that PT is supposed to help, not turn you into the cautionary tale in a medical textbook.

After months, she finally saw another doctor. Because why make a swift decision when you can stretch it out like a season finale? After enough scans, bloodwork, and what felt like a sacrificial ritual under a blood moon, we got the reveal:

A spinal cord tumor. Rare. Malignant. 

Because, of course. She didn’t just pull a muscle, she conjured a full-blown jinxed medical saga worthy of a witch trial.

I rearranged my entire life so I could be there for her on weekends—balancing school, an internship, and a part-time job while simultaneously playing nurse, chef, therapist, and emotional punching bag. I have no idea how I did it, but somehow I graduated with honors and survived the circus of college life, complete with glitter, hangovers, and a surprisingly supportive coven of sorority sisters who checked on me more than I checked my GPA.

Eventually, Mom went in for surgery to remove the tumor. Sounds hopeful, right?

Yeah, plot twist. The tumor was the same color as her spinal cord and because life is a cruel, ironic bastard, during the surgery, they accidentally nicked her spinal cord. The result? She was mostly paralyzed from the waist down. Wheelchair-bound. Life, leveled up in cruelty again.

I was out of school by then, working full-time and still coming home to take care of her. Her partner, if we can even call him that without insulting the word partner, was… well, let’s just say he was more of a parasitic energy vampire than a man. But that whole mess deserves its own novella, possibly with a dramatic stage reading.

Mom continued to grow sicker becoming bed-bound. Her wounds became gory little portals to hell—you could see bone. Actual, literal bone. At one point, I was so emotionally and physically wrecked, the nurses started caring for me too. That’s right, my mother’s agony was so intense, I practically became a side quest in her palliative care plan.

And then one night, in a moment of raw, exhausted desperation, I sat in my room and prayed—begged—for God to take her. She was in so much pain. I couldn’t watch her suffer anymore.

The next day… she was gone.

And of course, the guilt slithered in like a snake in a velvet cloak. Did I do this? Did my cursed little prayer actually work? If I had just held on longer, would she have healed?

Oh, the universe thinks it’s so clever. Real knee-slapper, that cosmic trickster.

Turns out my mom had a little witch in her too—though she’d never admit it outright. Her favorite number? 13. The number of full moons in a year, the number of steps up to any good haunting, the number that makes hotels sweat. And wouldn’t you know it? She passed on May 8th. Do the cursed math: 5 + 8 = 13. Ha. Ha. Ha. Cue ghostly laughter and passive-aggressive incense smoke.

But wait—the universe wasn’t quite done roasting us.

The funeral? The day before Mother’s Day. While everyone else was toasting their moms with bottomless mimosas, we were toasting mine with tear-soaked tissues and cold ham rolls. 

Dark? Yes.

Ironic? Painfully.

Fitting? …Absolutely.

And honestly? As unfortunate as it was, there was comfort in the storm. She wasn’t in pain anymore, which was the real magic trick. And the food? Impeccable. If you’re going to mourn, you might as well do it with deviled eggs and funeral lasagna, am I right?

I lost her… And in the process, I lost myself too. Spiraled into a depression so deep even the Mistress of Shadows would’ve raised an eyebrow. I became a master of hiding it all—smiling, functioning, posting cute selfies—while slowly drowning under the weight of my grief.

That spiral? That darkness? It deserves its own cursed chapter. But here’s what matters:

I made it through. I clawed my way out of that black hole—nails broken, mascara smudged, dignity questionable—but I made it. I’m the best I’ve been in a long time.

I still have my moments (don’t we all?), but listen—if I can survive losing the most important person in my life, and survive a live-in gremlin, spine surgery drama, and mental collapse in Converse…

Then you can survive whatever fresh hell the universe throws at you, too. 

You’re stronger than you think. You’re not just surviving, you’re thriving in the ruins wearing the chaos like couture. Witch, that’s power. Light a candle. Curse the moon. Cry in the bath. And then keep going.