It has been a month since my last post. I could pretend that I chose to take a break, but the truth is simpler. Life got full. Not dramatic, not catastrophic, just full in that way where days slip by and you suddenly realize that the thing you meant to do has been waiting patiently in the corner. I didn’t set the blog down on purpose. I just refused to harm myself by forcing one more thing into an already impossible week.
What I did instead was pause. A real pause. The kind where you stop, close your eyes, and breathe until your shoulders drop. A pause long enough to remember that urgent does not mean necessary, and non‑urgent does not mean unimportant. When there is too much on the table, you have to choose the musts over the shoulds. The shoulds will should all over your plans if you let them. Five minutes of breathing and clarity can save hours of spinning your wheels or freezing under the weight of overwhelm.
Stepping back protected me from burnout, but it also protected me from something worse. It protected me from doing things without intention. When you are just getting through tasks instead of doing them with intention, the work doesn’t simply fall flat. It sends a message you never meant to send. It tells the world that you don’t care. And I care deeply. So, I stepped back before my craft became hollow.
What I gained was capacity. Capacity to care about the new graduates. Capacity to support the Alumni group. Capacity to support Julie. Capacity to wake up the next day and do it all again without collapsing. Space didn’t give me rest. It gave me room to show up with heart.
And speaking of graduates, I am so proud of the 2026 Beginner Witchcraft classes. I saw real growth, not only as witches, but as people. New confidence. New strength. New friendships between people who were strangers only weeks before. A reminder that magick is intention acted upon, and the strongest intention is kindness.
Both classes surprised me with their personalities. One group soft and gentle. The other boisterous and full of laughter. Different energies, different rhythms, but the same thread running through all of them. Kindness. Care. Heart.
Their graduation marks something personal for me too. It is the last time I will be balancing a mundane job with a magickal vocation (I submitted my letter requesting retirement effective October). So, this will be the last time I am teaching while still carrying a full nine to five. It is the end of a beautiful chapter and the beginning of something new. A chance to imagine fresh ways to bring the craft to Ottawa. And maybe, just maybe, a future where classes end before nine in the evening.
Submitting my retirement option shifted something inside me. It put the present into perspective. It felt like the final chapter of a mystery novel. Chaotic, hurried, but clearly moving toward a conclusion. A moment of peace on the horizon before the next book begins. I could almost see myself like Robert Langdon returning to the Louvre, taking a breath, and reflecting on everything that has happened.
When I finally submitted it, my shoulders fell. The tension of indecision slipped away. And in that quiet space, something new rose up. The idea of a Sanctuary. Not a store. A place of peace. A place for the community, supported by the community, supporting the community. A place I want to create in Ottawa, a place for all of us.
When I imagine a Sanctuary, it feels like belonging. A place where witches and the witch‑hearted can feel at home in a way they may never have experienced. A place for ritual and learning, yes, but more than that. A place to be seen in your truest form and feel appreciated and understood.
When this dream of recent is realized (it’s going to take a while), I hope that when people step inside for the first time, they feel calm. Peace. Safety. The kind of safety that feels like the universe wrapping its arms around you, like a warm blanket on a cold evening.
And when I imagine the community inside the Sanctuary, I see them building energy circles. Casting spells. Hugging. Crying. Not because something is wrong, but because something is finally right. Because they have found a place where they can fully be themselves.
When I picture myself witnessing those moments, what rises in me is a sense of achievement. Not personal glory. Achievement because the community has a safe space. Achievement because a vision carried quietly in my chest has become real enough for people to cry in, laugh in, and heal in.
And when you finish reading this, I hope you feel something in your own body. Hope. Excitement. Belonging.
Because this next chapter is not just mine. It is ours.
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