I’m working on a five-part series about ceremonial magick, the LBRP, ANYMALS, and the little one inside me. Before I get there, here’s what’s happening while I figure it out: Sarah, old songs, parenting, reactions, a three-year-old guarding Momom like a nightclub bouncer, a black tote full of warm water, and a sunflower to the ear. Somewhere in all of it, I’m noticing a little more room between what happens and what I do next. These are my notes while it’s still working on me.

I lost my nose piercing, looked in the mirror and the old recording fired: “God, you’re so ugly.” This time, it hurt. I cried because I couldn’t believe how cruel I’d been to myself. A breadcrumb about mirrors, buried rage, emotional ladders, ritual, protection, and the strange distance between hating myself and liking myself. Turns out there are a lot of floors between those two places.
Maybe healing is hearing the old voice and realizing whose side you’re on when it starts playing.

Truman falls off the couch and says, “Good thing we have soft mats.” I hear my voice coming out of him.
Lately, parenting keeps teaching me the same strange lesson: leave a little space before intervening. Before fixing. Before explaining. Before deciding discomfort means FIX IT. Somehow this becomes a story about motherhood, magick, social media, old voices, and cereal.