Dear Witches & Friends:
The beginning of 2026 changed me in ways I never could have imagined.
What started as taking my dad to the hospital because something didn’t feel right quickly became a journey into palliative care, impossible decisions, and eventually saying goodbye. Nothing prepares you for that moment when the life you know fractures. One day you’re trying to fix a problem, and the next you’re sitting beside someone you love, knowing there is nothing left to fix.
As a witch, I believed in the power of healing. I believed in prayer, energy, ritual, and intention. But this experience taught me something I wasn’t expecting.
Sometimes magic isn’t about changing the outcome.
Sometimes magic is simply about being present.
I couldn’t stop death from coming for my dad. What I could do was sit beside him, hold his hand, whisper prayers, surround him with love, and trust that whatever came next would hold him gently. That became my practice. Not trying to hold him here, but helping create a peaceful space where he could let go with dignity.
That lesson changed how I see the space between life and death.
I no longer see them as separate worlds. I imagine them gently overlapping—a sacred place where grief and grace exist together. A place where memories remain alive, where love doesn’t disappear simply because a heartbeat does. The sharp edge of loss slowly softens into something quieter, something that becomes remembrance instead of only pain.
But death doesn’t only bring grief.
It brings truth.
One of the hardest things I learned had nothing to do with my dad’s illness.
Death has a way of pulling back the veil. It reveals the relationships we have, the roles we’ve been carrying, and the stories we’ve been telling ourselves for years. Things that were easy to ignore suddenly become impossible to look away from.
I found myself becoming more than a daughter. I became the person making phone calls, completing paperwork, helping my mom, managing the details that continue long after everyone has gone home. I don’t say this looking for praise. I say it because caregiving often happens quietly. So much of it is invisible.
At the same time, I was carrying something much older than grief.
Like many families, we all have roles we slip into without realizing it. I began to see that I had spent much of my life trying to earn my place by being the dependable one—the one who showed up, the one who carried the weight, the one who kept going because someone had to.
Growing up wasn’t always easy. I left home young, and even as an adult I sometimes found myself slipping back into old family roles, hoping that if I just did a little more, gave a little more, or loved a little harder, things might finally feel balanced.
Losing my dad didn’t create those patterns.
It simply revealed them.
That realization was almost as painful as losing him.
There were moments when I questioned whether love and sacrifice had become the same thing. I wondered why some people are expected to carry more than others. I wondered why grief looks so different from one person to the next.
As I cared for my dad and later helped my mom navigate life without him, I realized something difficult: I couldn’t control how others chose to show up. I couldn’t carry everyone’s responsibilities, and I couldn’t heal years of family dynamics simply because death had entered our lives.
That was a painful lesson.
One thing that surprised me most was what happened after the funeral.
People return to their lives.
The phone gets quieter.
The messages become fewer.
The world keeps moving while yours feels like it has stopped.
No one really tells you that this is when grief often becomes the heaviest. It’s no longer about planning a funeral or gathering with family. It’s learning how to wake up every morning in a world where someone you love no longer exists in the way they once did.
For me, this became the deepest form of shadow work I have ever experienced.
Not the kind found in books or rituals.
The kind that asks you to sit with resentment without letting it harden into bitterness.
The kind that asks you to love your family while also accepting that they are imperfect.
The kind that teaches you boundaries without closing your heart.
The kind that reminds you that caring for others should never mean abandoning yourself.
My practice has changed because of all of this.
These days my magic feels quieter.
It lives in lighting a candle for my dad.
It lives in checking on my mom, even when it’s hard.
It lives in sitting with grief instead of trying to banish it.
It lives in remembering that healing isn’t about forgetting. It isn’t about moving on.
It’s about learning to carry love differently.
If death has taught me anything, it’s this:
We don’t just mourn the people we lose.
We mourn the versions of ourselves that disappear with them.
We mourn the family we hoped we had.
We mourn the expectations that were never met.
We mourn the conversations we’ll never have.
And somehow, through all of that mourning, we keep living.
I still believe in magic.
Maybe now more than ever.
Not because I believe magic can stop death.
But because I’ve learned that real magic can hold space for grief, for love, for memory, and for healing to exist together.
That, to me, is sacred.
And perhaps that is where the worlds of the living and the dead truly meet—not in grand moments of mystery, but in the quiet ways we continue to love those who are no longer here.
A Red Cardinal Blessing for Remembrance
If you’ve made it this far, perhaps this blessing was meant to find you.
The next time you see a red cardinal, pause for a moment.
Place your hand over your heart.
Close your eyes.
Take one slow breath.
And whisper:
“Spirit of love, carried on crimson wings, remind me that love is never truly lost. May those who have crossed beyond the veil know they are remembered. May my grief become wisdom, my sorrow become compassion, and my memories become blessings. If this cardinal carries a message, may I receive it with an open heart. If it carries only beauty, may that be enough. So it is.”
Leave a small offering to the Earth—a pinch of birdseed, a flower, fresh water, or simply a moment of gratitude beneath the open sky.
Then continue on your way.
Not because your grief is finished, but because your love has found another way to live.
May your path be gentle.
May your heart remain open.
May those you love always find their way home to you in memory, in dreams, in the whisper of the wind, or in the flash of crimson wings.
Blessed Be. 🕯️❤️
JourneywithSpirit
