Witch, its been rough

I’ve been writing about heavy things lately. Trauma. Tattoos. Grief that tastes like burnt sage and unfinished prayers. But this time, I’m flipping the tarot deck and pulling a joy card—still slightly cursed, obviously, but this one’s dipped in glitter and moonlight.

Last time, I wrote about getting a tattoo inspired by her. Because nothing says “I process emotions well” like permanently carving the words of a fictional pastor into your skin. But now it’s time to share how I met her. Buckle in, witches.

Heres all about the time I met THE Grace Greenleaf herself—Merle Dandridge—and somehow didn’t combust into a cloud of ash and awkwardness.

She announced she’d be narrating an opera in Cleveland. And yes, I read that twice like it was a prophecy. Normally I’d mope about missing it, as one does when their favorite person is 500 miles away being iconic. But plot twist: I had just moved to West Virginia (long story, minor chaos), and suddenly Cleveland wasn’t that far. Job? New and flexible. Time off? Magically granted and for once in my life, something was… convenient? Spooky, I know.

And then it rained. Of course.

Not the soft, aesthetic drizzle that makes you feel poetic. No. This was storm-witch energy. The kind of rain that feels like the universe is doing a dramatic cleanse while laughing in your face. I assumed the universe was once again laughing in my direction and that meeting Merle was off the table. I’ve been to NYC shows. I know the drill. Standing at the stage door in the rain? Hard pass. And honestly, I wouldn’t expect a queen like her to be out there suffering from elemental sabotage for us mere mortals either.

But I was still excited. I took a quick photo of the stage like the excitable little fan-ghoul I am, tossed it on my Instagram story, and tagged her with something supportive and sweet like, “Your witches are in the building.”

Cut to after the show. My friend and I are heading out when my phone buzzes. Instagram notification. From… HER. And because the spirits have flawless comedic timing, I chose that exact moment to read it while descending a staircase—and immediately tripped like I was being shoved by a ghost.

No injuries. Just my dignity astral-projecting into the next dimension.

The message? “Let me know where you are—I’d love to come meet you.”

I’m sorry, what?? Did I just get personally summoned by Merle Dandridge? Was I hallucinating? Had the rain soaked through my skull and short-circuited reality? I reread it six times. I think I disassociated halfway through. 

Cue immediate spellbound panic. My heart? Racing like a hunted faun. My face? Tomato red. My breathing? Think “demon mid-exorcism.” But onward I went, spiritually wheezing, into the lobby.

I spotted fellow Merle disciples and let her know where we all were. And then—like a goddess descending through the mist—she arrived.

She. Was. Glowing. Probably due to natural charisma, but I’m convinced there was at least one aura-enhancing candle involved.

I hung back like a good little introvert, letting others go first while I tried to remember how to breathe like a functional adult. When it was my turn, I introduced myself. No spark of recognition—until I dropped my Instagram handle like a socially awkward witch sliding her business card across a pentagram.

Spark. Her whole face lit up. “Oh my gosh, hi! It’s so nice to finally meet you!” she said, and hugged me. Like really hugged me. The kind of hug that cleanses your third eye and temporarily cures generational trauma.

Then came the group photo. My nightmare. As the most introverted introvert this side of the veil, group photos are where I spiritually evaporate. But hey, more time to mentally prepare. While I was putting my stuff down, my friend noticed a string hanging off the back of Merle’s pants and told her. And this icon—this queen—without missing a beat, just gave us the most casual, “Get it,” like we were old friends picking lint off each other at a coven meeting preparing for a full moon ritual. No diva energy. Just big sister witch vibes. Iconic behavior. Dead.

After that, people started to peel away, and we each got our own little moment. That’s when I gave her a card with a letter tucked inside—a spell scroll of gratitude and a very chill (absolutely not obsessively planned) request to tattoo her words.

She stayed longer than she had to. She actually missed part of her next event just to talk with us.

She didn’t owe me anything. She didn’t know me beyond a username and some mildly unhinged Instagram stories. But she showed up anyway. And that? That’s magic. That’s Grace—literally and spiritually.

That was just the first time.

I’ve met her a couple more times since, back in NYC when she was playing Persephone in Hadestown (because of course she was playing a literal queen of the underworld). And each time, she remembered me. Lit up. Hugged me like we were long-lost coven sisters.

The world needs more people like her. The kind who meet you in the rain, hug you like they’ve known you for lifetimes, and remind you that kindness doesn’t have to be rare.

And if you ever wonder whether the universe is listening… sometimes it is. Sometimes, even if your mascara’s running and your soul is mildly hexed, the rain clears long enough for someone extraordinary to step through and say hi.