Tea, Candles, and Vibes: My Non-Witchy Witch Life

The Craft, Chaos, and My First Black Lipstick

I was fourteen when I watched The Craft, and let me tell you, something awoke within me. Possibly three somethings: an obsession with witchcraft, a full-blown goth aesthetic, and a deeply inconvenient crush on Fairuza Balk. Within a week, I’d raided my local library for books on Wicca, carved a pentagram into a candle, and started sketching ankhs on my school folder like it was my full-time job.

Looking back, it was all very dramatic. I’d stomp around in my doc martens with heavy eyeliner and a crystal necklace I didn’t understand, but insisted was important. Did I know what I was doing? Absolutely not. Did that stop me from trying to summon wind during PE class? Also no. My witchcraft at that stage was 10% spellwork, 90% mood.

But that teenage magic hit something deep. Something that wasn’t about aesthetics or trying to be cool (though I was definitely trying to be cool). It felt like remembering a language I’d forgotten I knew. The rituals, the candles, the whispered intentions at 2am while journaling in a tear-stained notebook… it was real. Even if I had no idea what I was doing, I knew it meant something. And that was enough.

The On-Again, Off-Again Witch

Fast forward through my twenties, thirties, and now forties, and I’ve danced in and out of witchcraft more times than I can count. I’ve had full altar set-ups with colour-coded candles and labelled jars, and I’ve also had years where the closest thing to magic I touched was a scented candle from Kmart.

I’ve been the girl with a dedicated witchy website and podcast, waxing lyrical about full moons and herbal infusions, and I’ve also been the girl who rolled her eyes so hard she nearly ascended when someone brought up their rising sign. Sometimes you love a thing so deeply it burns you out a bit, you know? I got jaded with the witchy community, the gatekeeping, the aesthetic policing, the constant need to be doing.

So I shrunk. I stopped sharing. I took the pressure off. And in doing so, I found my own rhythm again. It wasn’t about being a perfect witch or the most knowledgeable, it was about coming back to the parts that felt like me. The quiet intention in a cup of tea. The way I whisper gratitude when I catch the light hitting my plants just right. The chaos, the softness, the deep-rooted knowing. You can take the girl out of the witch, but oh, she’s still a goblin whispering spells into her soup.

A Pratchett Soul and Neurospicy Magic

I should’ve known witchiness would always be part of me. I was raised on Terry Pratchett, after all. His witches were never about sparkle and drama. They were about headology, common sense, and a hefty dose of sarcasm. They knew the land. They saw people. They understood that magic was less about theatrics and more about presence. That sort of thing sticks with a person.

And as someone firmly planted on the neurospicy spectrum, I’ve never been good at routine. I’m a chaos witch by accident and design. I’ll spend three hours researching planetary correspondences, then forget to water my plants for a week. I light candles and forget what they’re for. My altar is currently home to an old red lipstick, some dried orange slices, and a bronze snail. And yet, somehow, it still works.

Because magic isn’t a checklist. It’s a feeling. It’s sitting with your cat in the dark and realising you feel safe. It’s saying thank you to the moon without needing a full ritual. It’s knowing your energy shifts with the weather, and letting that guide your choices. I might not practise like I used to, but the magic’s still there. Just with more snacks and less structure.

Everyday Witchy, Without the Witch Kit

So here’s the funny part: I still do witchy things. Every single day. But they don’t look like they belong in a Pinterest coven board. I’m talking real-life, neurodivergent chaos magic. The kind that involves stirring intention into your matcha latte while yelling at your cat to stop knocking things off the bench. The kind that looks suspiciously like self-care.

I talk to my tea. I tell it what I need from it. Calm. Clarity. Strength. And I swear it listens. I make weird little herbal blends when I’m feeling low, even if I have no clue what’s in them beyond “this smells nice” and “this seems like it won’t kill me.” I let the sun hit my face and imagine it’s charging my soul like a solar-powered goblin.

I also curse people who hold up the queue under my breath, but only in the most loving, chaotic-neutral way. I set intentions when I moisturise. I blow kisses to my houseplants. I wear perfume based on my mood. It’s not structured, it’s not polished, but it’s mine. And honestly? That’s the kind of magic I trust the most.

Also, I adopted Lucifer, a black cat, on Halloween. If that’s not accidental witching, I don’t know what is.

Magic isn’t a checklist. It’s a vibe. A vibe with herbs, possibly fire, and definitely chaos.

Living Magically, Accidentally on Purpose

I don’t think I’ll ever stop being a bit witchy. Even if I never cast another spell or touch another tarot card (although let’s be real, I absolutely will), it’s part of who I am. It’s how I see the world. It’s noticing patterns. Holding space. Lighting a candle just because it feels right. Letting intuition call the shots, even when logic says otherwise.

It’s about making the mundane a little more meaningful. Whether that’s whispering affirmations while doing the dishes or listening to the wind like it has something important to say. It’s about embracing the weird, the whimsical, and the wildly impractical. Like that time I created a moon water spray to bless my doona before sleep. Did it work? Who knows. Did it make me feel cosier? Absolutely.

So yes. Ok. I might be a little bit witchy. But in a chaos-goblin, anti-capitalist, tea-drinking, grief-honouring, soul-tending sort of way. I might not show up in robes with an athame, but I’ll absolutely hex you with kindness and cleanse my kitchen with rosewater and sass. And honestly, I think that counts. Because the most powerful magic I’ve found is the kind that meets you exactly where you are – mascara smudged, tea in hand, heart cracked open just enough to let the light in.

You Are Not Entitled to an Answer – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In this episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why you are not entitled to an answer. Specifically, we're talking about the strange little corner of modern dating where a few days of app chat somehow becomes an emotional contract, and suddenly a man you've never met believes your silence requires a formal explanation, a debrief, and possibly a follow-up meeting with management.I have two stories for you. One man who talked almost exclusively about himself, ignored the fact that I was sick, and then followed up a week later asking whether I'd reconsidered his "request for clarification". And another who became offended because I didn't respond to his selfie within two hours while I was lying in a dark room with a migraine. Sir. Please be serious.Because here's the thing. Before you've met someone, you do not owe them unlimited access to your time, attention, reassurance, or emotional labour. You don't have to justify why the vibes changed. You don't need a reason they'll consider reasonable. You are allowed to disengage because something felt off, because you changed your mind, because you met someone else, or because you're in your luteal phase and frankly the entire world can wait.Today we're talking about the difference between ghosting and simply disengaging, why demanding closure can become a boundary violation, the exhausting expectation that women should manage men's feelings for them, and why you do not need to JADE, justify, argue, defend, or explain, when you've already decided you're done. Let's get into it.Key Takeaways:A few days of chatting does not create a debt. Matching on an app, exchanging messages, or talking on the phone does not give someone a claim on your attention. Until you've actually built a connection, you are allowed to walk away without submitting supporting documentation.Closure is not something another person can demand from you. Asking once is one thing. Continuing to push after someone has clearly disengaged is not persistence or emotional maturity. It's refusing to accept the answer you've already been given.You do not need to JADE. You don't have to justify, argue, defend, or explain why you're no longer interested. The reason doesn't have to be good enough for him. It just has to be yours.Pre-date silence and post-date silence are not the same thing. If you've never met, disengaging is part of app dating. Once you've shared an actual date or developed a genuine connection, a simple goodbye becomes basic courtesy. Nobody needs a dissertation, but acknowledging another human being matters.Sometimes they don't miss you. They miss the audience. Someone can seem interested while actually being interested in having your attention. Real connection requires curiosity about you. If the only time they become deeply engaged is when you're leaving, pay attention to that.For more visit ⁠BryJaimea.com⁠ or follow over on IG ⁠@BryJaimea

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