Witch, its been rough

Hello, my beautifully cursed coven. I took a week off, not because I was busy conjuring demons or hexing exes (though, tempting), but because my inspiration packed her broomstick and ghosted me. So instead of waiting for a muse, I signed myself up for something arguably worse: Couch to 5k.

Yes. Running. The devil’s cardio.

Now, let’s be honest—my autoimmune body barely tolerates walking to the fridge. Some days, rolling out of bed feels like I should win an Olympic medal. And yet here I am, lacing up sneakers like I’m auditioning for some dark, sweaty reboot of Charmed. The goal? Survive a 5k by Halloween, because obviously that’s our sabbath. If you’re here and it’s not your favorite holiday… sweetie, are you lost?

But when I say “crush a 5k,” I mean it in the loosest possible terms. Not graceful. Not fast. Not Instagram-worthy. Just me, stumbling across the finish line looking like I sprinted straight out of a crypt. If I don’t pass out or puke on anyone, we’re calling it a win.

So far, I’ve survived two training days. Day one? Fine. Day two? My body cursed me in tongues I didn’t even know it spoke. My muscles protested so violently I considered lying down and letting the Earth reclaim me. But instead of quitting, I did what witches do best: adapted. I turned those runs into dramatic, rage-filled power walks. Picture me storming away from a coven meeting after someone dared suggest pumpkin spice is “basic.” Not fast. Not pretty. But thirty minutes later, I was still alive and honestly, that’s enough.

So, to my runner friends: give me your hacks, spells, or sacrificial rituals to make this less miserable. And to my fellow battle-worn babes: remember, autoimmune doesn’t get the final word. We do. Even if we limp, curse, or crawl across the finish line, we’re still moving. And moving forward is the ultimate magic. 🖤✨