Witchcraft has shouldn’t be about control. It’s about connection; to the world, to our purpose, to the strange and beautiful flow of wyrd that carries each of us along our own path. Yet somehow, in a practice built on intuition and sovereignty, gatekeeping still shows up like an unwanted guest.
I’ve watched it happen. I’ve watched people use the craft to control others, to hold power over them, to make them dependent, anxious, and scared. Every time I see it, I feel the same thing: a deep, instinctive recoil, because the craft should never make someone feel small. It should make them feel strong, empowered, and independent.
Gatekeeping dresses itself up in noble language. “I’m protecting the tradition.” “I’m keeping things sacred.” “I’m making sure people are ready.” But underneath all that? It’s ego. It’s insecurity. It’s fear. And it’s the fastest way to stunt not only a student’s growth, but the teacher’s as well.
A great witch is always learning. Always expanding. Always listening. The moment you declare yourself a master, you stop growing. You stop being curious. You stop letting your students teach you; and trust me, they will teach you, if you let them. When ego takes the wheel, what was once spiritual becomes political. What was once fellowship becomes a game of control. And suddenly the craft starts to look a lot like the very power structures witches love to mock in organized religion.
The irony is painful.
But most gatekeeping isn’t born from malice. It’s born from fear. Fear that a student will misuse information. Fear that someone will see your flaws and decide you’re not special. Fear that if others know what you know, they won’t need you anymore. When your identity is built on being the one who “knows,” it’s hard to imagine being valued for anything else.
Yet the moment you stop guarding knowledge like a dragon on a pile of gold, something incredible happens. People stop coming to you because you’re the keeper of secrets. They come because they trust you. They come because you’re a collaborator, a thought partner, a confidant. They come to share their rituals, not for permission, but for perspective. They come to brainstorm, to reflect, to celebrate, to grow.
They don’t need you for hidden knowledge. They want you because you’re safe to grow beside.
That’s the difference between gatekeeping and guardianship. A gatekeeper protects their status. A guardian protects the student’s growth.
I don’t teach baneful magick in beginner classes. Not because it’s forbidden, but because context matters. Readiness matters. Intention matters. But the goal is never to make students dependent on me. The goal is to help them grow into their own power. I teach how things are typically done and why, so that if they choose the conventional path, they do it with intention — and if they choose differently, they do that with intention too.
This is where Tarot becomes a perfect teacher. A Tarot card doesn’t tell you what to do. It shows you a pattern, a possibility, a direction the energy is flowing. It says, “Here’s the weather. What will you do with it?” Tarot doesn’t demand obedience. It invites reflection. It trusts you to navigate your own life.
The craft should work the same way.
When witches understand the why, they stop copying and start creating. When they create, the craft grows. When the craft grows, the community grows. And when the community grows, everyone becomes more powerful.
I see it all the time. Students come back to share rituals they’ve written. Former students drop in to talk about what worked, what didn’t, and what they’re trying next. They share their experiences with others in the community, and suddenly the excitement spreads. The craft becomes alive, not inherited. Personal, not performative.
This is what a healthy witchcraft community looks like. Not hierarchy. Not secrecy. Not dependence. But collaboration, curiosity, and mutual respect.
It’s like watching children grow into adults who become friends with their parents. Good parents don’t enforce rules to control their kids. They guide them so they can grow into themselves. And when they do, the relationship shifts into something equal, respectful, and rooted in love rather than obligation. A good teacher wants the same thing. Respect earned through care, not titles. Connection earned through honesty, not mystique.
And this is where wyrd comes in; the living flow of energy, fate, choice, and consequence that shapes each of our lives. Your wyrd is not my wyrd. Your path is not my path. At best, our paths may converge for a time, but they must remain unique. If I force you to walk my path, you lose the ability to navigate your own. Control doesn’t just limit a witch; it derails them.
Beginners are new, not lesser. Their feelings matter. Their questions matter. Their presence matters.
If you’re just starting out, I want you to know this: you don’t have to earn your worth in the craft. You don’t have to impress anyone. You don’t have to fear doing it wrong. You belong here because you’re an equally valuable part of the universe. That’s enough.
And if I could one piece of advice as you take your first steps, it would be this:
Trust your gut. It’s your connection to the universe. If your intention comes from love, your magic will reflect that. Knowledge will refine your craft, but your instinct and your heart are where the power lives.
The craft doesn’t need gatekeepers. It needs guides, collaborators, and communities that help witches grow into themselves.
It needs you; exactly as you are, and exactly as you’re becoming.
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