Witch, its been rough

Hello, witches. Step into the circle. Draw the air around you tight with intention. Light a candle. Shake off the outside world. Let this moment be yours—a space beneath moonlight and shadow, where truth and magic meet. If you have ever demanded perfection of yourself, called it strength, or treated softness like a betrayal, this one is for you.

I have always believed that if I wasn’t good at something, it simply meant I hadn’t tried hard enough yet. Excellence wasn’t a goal—it was an expectation. And I needed to be good at everything—schoolwork, athletics, music, you name it. Failure felt forbidden, a crack in the carefully crafted image I held of myself. I expected to know, to master, to succeed quietly and efficiently, preferably without needing help. So I pushed harder, corrected faster, criticized deeper. I sharpened myself down to the bone and called it ambition, mistaking self-punishment for power.

And here’s the part that matters: it worked. Winning feels good. Medals for placing in sports didn’t appear by accident. High honor roll wasn’t luck. Becoming drum major didn’t fall into my lap. Being named captain of the track team wasn’t coincidence. Those moments came from discipline, repetition, pressure, and refusing to quit. Hard work brought visible rewards—praise, recognition, titles—proof that the voice demanding more was right. If there had been no positive outcome, no applause or validation attached, I wouldn’t have continued being so hard on myself. But there was always something to win. And winning reinforced the spell. The lesson was sealed early: push harder, get rewarded.

Over time, that external success turned inward. I became my own scoreboard, my own judge, my own unforgiving referee. I am, without question, my own most relentless critic. The voice in my head doesn’t whisper—it casts commands like a dark incantation. Be better. Do more. Don’t falter. Achievements vanish the moment they arrive, replaced immediately by the next impossible expectation. Competence hardened into cruelty, and I convinced myself this was strength.

Even today, this need to excel has followed me into my career, my projects, my daily life. I hold myself to impossible standards, and yes, I have been called out for it—told I am too hard on myself, too relentless, too unforgiving. Part of me bristles when I hear it. Another part exhales in quiet recognition. Because they’re not wrong. This pattern has been with me for a long time.

My body, however, refuses to play along with the illusion. It began sending signals—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. Fatigue that lingered like a low-grade curse. Tension coiled deep in my bones. A constant sense of bracing for impact, even in moments meant for rest. There was no dramatic collapse, just a slow unraveling that demanded my attention. I started to see that demanding perfection in every corner of my life wasn’t discipline at all. It was self-abandonment, dressed up as productivity.

Learning to be gentle with myself has felt like discovering a lost spellbook. A softer magic, rooted in care instead of control. It means letting myself be a beginner. Allowing mistakes without turning them into moral failings. Resting without keeping score. Honoring my limits instead of daring them to break. This gentleness feels rebellious—a lunar ritual against grind culture, a declaration that my energy is sacred.

Still, resistance lingers. Softness feels dangerous when identity is built on endurance. I worry that if I loosen my grip, I’ll lose momentum, purpose, or worth. The old belief that suffering equals growth still whispers in the shadows. Undoing it is shadow work: slow, repetitive, deeply unglamorous magic that requires patience and the willingness to interrupt my own curses.

I am still practicing. Some days I fall back into old enchantments, measuring my worth by output and achievement. Other days, I pause, breathe, and choose a kinder spell. I am learning that rest is not something to be earned, that failure is not a moral failing, and that gentleness does not weaken my power—it refines it. Softness is not my undoing. It is my ward. My protection. My magic.

And now, witches, I call to you—those who hold themselves to impossible standards, who chase gold stars long after the applause has faded, who treat rest as a reward instead of a right. Gather your candles. Center your breath. Together, we cast a spell of protection. A ward against impossible expectations. A charm against self-betrayal. A blessing of patience and softness.

Light a candle. Feel its flame. Speak your intention. Choose yourself.

Repeat: I am protected. I am worthy. I am enough.

The spell is stronger when we cast it together—when we honor the sacred truth that tenderness is not weakness. It is ancient, resilient, and powerful magic. And so it is. 🕯️✨