Category: Journal Entry

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“Never the Enemy”

by Axton N. O. Mitchell

Raised

I was raised a girl. That’s how the world saw me. That’s what I was told to be. A little girl with crooked pigtails m, buck teeth, and scraped-up knees. She didn’t like being touched. She didn’t like being stared at. She never liked how the world made her feel.

Taught

She was taught to smile. Not because of happiness, it was just safer. She learned to laugh off the gross comments much before she could read chapter books. She learned how to keep a boy from following her home. How to hold keys and lighters in her balled up fist.I know that just existing in a body the world called “girl” comes with a constant background noise of threat.

Assaulted

I was assaulted, as a little girl, as a teen, and as a man. A few years after passing the awkward transition phases; I was  years on hormones. A woman I was dating at the time liked to get me drunk enough to forget. Not that I want to but, it’s worth mentioning I never  remembered one single time. She told me it was easier that way. Then the used up it’s me not you. 

Myth

There’s this myth that once you transition, it all goes away. As if you can flip a switch, cut your hair, change your name, and suddenly be safe. As if I am suddenly respected. Erasing my trauma from living as a girl as if it doesn’t  stick to me. My second skin. Even after the world starts seeing you differently, it doesn’t mean it treats you right. If you  don’t “pass” all the time. Especially when you live in small-town maga country .

Now, I get called “sir” until certain people get told, because no they can’t tell. The people that claim they “are my friends” say “she” behind my back as soon as they get mad at me. However, the flip side is worse for me. Now these people assume I’m one of them. Racist comments. Sexist jokes. Homophobia. Trans baby conspiracies.Assuming I’m a good ol’ boy. I was never meant to become the enemy. When I out myself they stop treating like the man I am. The privilege stops when I defend someone. I won’t close my mouth to save my neck. 

Remember

Remember not all men started the same. Some of us became men on purpose. With intention. With pain. With joy, too. But it wasn’t simple. And it wasn’t fast.

In my late teens and early twenty’s, I thought I was a lesbian. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t confused. That label made sense for a while. I liked girls. I never felt like one, I tried to. I didn’t have the words to explain, but I was a man.  Not a phase, I just hadn’t fully found the truth. I have lesbian memories. I have lesbian trauma. I have lesbian experiences. That doesn’t go away just because I’m a man. Identity isn’t always a clean line. I’m a transgender man, and I lived as a lesbian. I survived as a girl. I became someone else and stayed alive.

Yearn

 I yearn to be read. I want my work to move people who’ve never been seen. People that never had a place at the table. I’m not wasting time trying to win over systems that ignore us. I’m going to carve us something new. Each project I curate is rooted in the belief that all minority stories deserve to be told in our own voices.

 I want people to remember and know that minorities don’t just die. We live. We laugh. We have favorite songs. We have poetry in our blood and grief in our bones.

I write because I won’t be erased. I write because I’m still here. I want to make sure no one else feels like they have to disappear just to be seen.

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The fire still smells like cedar and clove. With bay leaves and memory. Like endings.

Ritual Fires

At midnight, I threw myself to the flames. No, not all of me, just the parts I no longer want to keep. I wrote the things I’m letting go of on torn paper and fed them to the fire like offerings. I carved hope into bay leaves and whispered every dream I’m not ready to give up on. I mixed herbs and bark for Litha. Both for letting go and for inviting in. And then I burned it all.

It wasn’t neat.

It never is.

But it was honest.

I burned what I’ve outgrown, again even if I already wrote about it two days ago.

I burned shame I inherited.

I burned the way I still try to shrink when I take up too much space.

I burned the ghost of who I thought I had to be to earn love.

I let the smoke wrap around me like a truth spell or a reminder. I’m not starting over. I’m continuing. And I needed that fire to mark the shift. This isn’t a ritual I’ll explain in exact terms. It’s just something I needed.

A fire.

A night.

A line drawn in smoke. Now there’s ash in my hair. Smoke in my bones. And more space than there was before.

I’ll plant something in it. Not now. But soon.

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Solstice

There’s something ironic about the Solstice being the brightest, longest day of the year. All that sunlight and somehow, my most important truths came in the quiet. Not in the light. Not in celebration. Not even in ritual. Just in the soft, calm knowing that came after decades of waiting.

I used to wait on the porch every other weekend, little backpack packed. Notebooks and a toothbrush. Maybe a toy I’d bring with me to his place. Except he never came. Or well to be honest he usually didn’t come. He came sometimes. It was as if he’d appear once in a blue moon. He seemed to come when he thought my hope would shrivel and I would stop waiting if he didn’t.

That was the pattern.

Calls full of promises.

Nothing to follow through.

Excuses. Delays. Silence.

Years of silence. With minimal visits a year even if he scheduled them all.

Still Child Me Waited & Waited

But I still waited, every other weekend like clockwork. It became part of my rhythm, part of the structure that shaped me. I didn’t realize until recently that I’d started seeing everyone through that same lens. I treated every new connection like it was just another promise waiting to be broken. Another porch. Another weekend. Another packed bag that never got carried to the car.

But Lately

It’s only lately, maybe in this strange stillness, that I’ve realized not everyone is him. Not every missed message is abandonment. Not every “I’m here for you” is a lie.

Some people stay. Some people show up. Some people are not him.

And I’ve stood by my no contact boundary. For 2 years now mostly. That was not easy. There’s guilt in that kind of distance. But there’s also peace. And maybe peace is the true Solstice gift. It’s the kind that comes from holding your own sunlight instead of chasing scraps of someone else’s.

Two years ago, he commented on something I’d posted about my mom. He acted like he was still a presence. It seemed like he had any place in my life or my grief. This man doesn’t even know my birthday. My address. Where I live. Who I am. He knows a version of me that’s long dead. The child on the porch. Not the person I am now.

Should Have Just Stayed No Contact

So I messaged him.

The message was long, so long you had to click to expand it in iMessages. I told him the truth. I laid it out. The damage. The broken trust. The years of absence. How his words mean nothing anymore because he never once followed through. I wasn’t cruel, just honest. Direct. Clear.

He replied with a single period.

Just a dot.

Like all that truth didn’t even deserve words.

A year later, I tried again. Softer this time. Not because I thought it would change anything, but because I needed to release it from me. I needed to say that this wasn’t my job to fix. That I was the child. That I had done enough.

Another long message. Another scroll.

He replied with a thumbs up.

That was it.

And somehow, those two hollow responses made everything quieter. Like, finally quiet. Not the kind of quiet you sit in while waiting . The kind that comes when you stop waiting. When you stop leaving the porch light on. When you let the bag go unpacked. When you choose to stop hoping for something you know won’t ever come.

That was my Solstice.

Not a ritual. Not a hike. Not a spell.

Just a quiet knowing:

He is who he is.

And I am no longer the child waiting for him to change.

I may share those messages someday. This is not to expose him. It is to show what emotional closure looks like when it’s one-sided. What it means to hold truth when no one ever mirrors it back. What it means to free yourself from the trap of obligation and choose healing instead.

The sun is highest now.

And I’ve never felt more clear.

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This Sabbat, I didn’t write spells in ink or carve runes in wax.

I just gave the sun my grief.

Grief; I don’t need it

I gave it the weight of every father wound I still carry. The kind of pain that isn’t loud anymore, just permanent. The kind that warps your nervous system, your breath, your sense of what people mean when they say they care.

I offered the fire the fear of abandonment that was planted in me before I could spell the word.

My father placed that fear in my lap like it was mine to own.

Like I asked for it.

Like it wasn’t his to carry.

He gave me years of waiting, promises with no shape, affection that only lived in voicemail. And silence. So much silence. He made me doubt my own worth in the name of “trying.”

He made me wait.

Then made me think it was my fault for expecting him to show.

I’ve carried that shit for decades. And I’m tired.

This year, Litha wasn’t about joy or warmth or some golden glow.

It was about fire.

And what I could let it take.

Bye Jake.. I mean Dad

So I whispered it:

Take the grief.

Take the rage.

Take the pieces of him still embedded in my self-doubt.

Take the echoes of that porch I waited on.

Take the hollowed-out child he left behind every other weekend.

I gave the sun everything I didn’t owe him.

The grief was both closure and combustion.

I didn’t write it out as a ritual, it was a ritual. Every breath I let go of, every memory I finally stopped justifying. Every “but he tried” that I no longer believe.

Let the fire keep it.

This is the year I stopped seeing my pain as something beautiful and started seeing it as something worth burning.

It’s not a symbol. It’s not a lesson. It’s not poetry.

It’s just mine.

And I don’t want it anymore.

Maybe that’s what real witchcraft is:

Not just manifesting joy.

But letting the fire consume what never belonged to you in the first place.

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I’ve burned a lot to survive. Versions of me that loved too loud. Versions that begged to be chosen.

Grief I thought I’d buried, only to set it alight again when the season called for it.

Litha makes it easy to focus on what we’re releasing, but what about what we refuse to give up?

What I have left

This is a list of what the fire hasn’t taken. My ability to write through pain without erasing it. My voice, even when it shook, even when it wanted to vanish.

My hunger for truth. My softness, even when it was mocked or manipulated. My magic, especially the kind that hides in daily rituals, not sabbat circles. My will to live, even when I hated the world for making me prove it.

Some parts of me have already been through the fire and walked out different scarred, sure, but still whole.

Some things are too sacred to be burned.

There’s a kind of strength in knowing what can’t be stripped from you even by trauma, even by grief, even by your own self-destruction cycles.

So as I cast into the fire what no longer fits.

I hold close what has always been mine.

I kiss the parts that endured.

I water the roots that stayed intact.

Let this sun shine on what I’ve kept.

What I’ve rebuilt.

What I will never again set on fire.

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What parts of myself feel the most alive under the heat of summer

It’s the version of me that comes out dripping in sweat. There is dirt under my nails. I hold a rock in my hand. It’s the me who forgets what time it is. I’ve been outside too long. I trace trails with my feet and stories with my eyes. Summer makes me reckless in a soft way. Not chaotic. Not destructive. Just free. The sun makes my skin hum. I feel more real when it’s hot enough to blur the edges of things.

Water

I come alive near water. In it. Around it. Listening to the hush and crash of it. Watching the way it sparkles and swallows light and tosses it back up. There’s a version of me that only shows up in July. A version that lets things slide more easily. That laughs more. That eats with bare hands. That lets sweat gather at the back of my neck and doesn’t try to hide it.

Nature is Demanding

I complain about the bugs and the heat but I think I like that too. The way nature demands I participate. I like having to move slower. To swat something away. To know I’m not the only thing alive out here.

The dirt feels like home. The sun feels like a crown. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m burned out. I am most myself under this fire. My body remembers how to trust itself. My breath gets bigger.

I don’t just exist in summer. I live in it. I stretch. I bloom. I let the world see me without apology.

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What is your favorite season of year? Why?

Running through streams and over hills with Luna right beside me. She’s all energy and fur. It’s just pure, happy dog chaos. We wander from trail to trail. We chase lightning bugs as they flicker in the dusk. We laugh and pass blunts with friends. We jump off rocks and cliffs into the cool, refreshing water below, feeling the rush of summer all around us. Nights are for camping, sitting close to crackling fires, swapping stories under a sky full of stars. And yes lots of rock hounding, because you never know what treasures the earth might have waiting.

This journal is for all those wild, messy, beautiful moments that make summer feel like magic.

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There’s something deeply bittersweet about missing the moon.

Every time the full moon rises, I feel a tug at my chest. It is something ancient and soft. It calls me to pause. But most of the time I’m not lighting candles or laying out cloth under its glow. I’m under fluorescent lights instead clocked in doing the work that keeps me afloat.

So this time I brought the ritual with me.

Right now, I am sitting under the moon. I am charging my stones. I am not waiting until tomorrow. I am doing it now. This moment is already sacred because I am present. I will renew my intentions and affirmations again tomorrow night. I will continue to recharge these stones monthly under every full moon.

Lunch Break Spell Work

On my break, I held stones in my hands. I spoke like someone who already knows their magic is working. I whispered truths I’m ready to live in, not just hope for. I didn’t ask the moon for anything. I affirmed what is already happening. It is already becoming, already mine.

I set intentions for stability and creative expansion for momentum that doesn’t burn me out. I set intentions for clarity, protection, grounded joy, and long-lasting purpose. I set them not from a place of lacking but from a place of embodiment. I chose each phrase carefully. I viewed them not like a wish list but like an oath.

Because when we set intentions we’re not begging the universe we’re building it

We’re saying this is what I am becoming this is what already lives inside me this is what is inevitable because I choose to keep showing up

Two Stones

Two stones carried the heart of this moment for me Libyan Desert Glass and Moldavite.

Libyan Desert Glass, born of heat and impact, is the kind of stone that doesn’t whisper. It tells you that you are building something real. It’s not a stone of fast thrills. It’s about legacy. It’s about a long-term vision and foundations you can return to. That’s why I carry it. It reminds me that the slow, steady burn of my current work is establishing a foundation. This foundation is something my future self can stand on.

Moldavite that one needs its own moment.

Moldavite has been sensationalized by TikTok. It’s portrayed as a chaos crystal, a drama bomb, and a remedy for all bad things. There’s a belief that it also makes your exes vanish. But that’s not what it is, not really.

Moldavite doesn’t repel it calls. It protects. It is beautiful and powerful. It commands respect.

Amplifies

It amplifies what you set. If you pair it with panic, it will magnify panic. If matched with unresolved grief or bitter wishes, it magnifies those as well. Just take it all away, and you’ll see what it magnifies. That storm. That purge. That mess. It’s not because it’s evil, but because you told it to.

Moldavite is a stone of momentum. It says I’ll bring it faster, louder, and now. If you unintentionally focus on chaos, fear, or destruction, it will return that energy. It will echo back in ways that you’re not ready for.

So I use it carefully.

With Moldavite, I speak only what I want. I accelerate aligned growth and creative expansion. I gain spiritual clarity and purpose that doesn’t break me.

Seriously be careful with Her like Cardi B

And it answers. Always.

If you’ve ever missed a full moon because life got in the way know this it still sees you.

And you can still make the moment sacred

Even if it’s in your work uniform Even if it’s between tasks Even if it’s just a whisper

It counts

You count

And the moon is still so so proud.

If you can’t perform your full moon ritual outdoors or at work, you can charge your stones differently. Set them on a windowsill during the full moon’s glow. The moonlight will reach them there. It will carry the energy you intend. Just focus on your intentions before you leave.

And if you miss the full moon altogether, a Selenite charging jar can gently cleanse and recharge your stones anytime. If you want to learn how to make one or buy a beautiful handcrafted jar, just ask . I can connect you with a friend who makes them.

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There was a version of me that never smiled often. She wore baggy shirts and girl-shaped lies. She lowered her voice in public bathrooms. She kept her head down when someone said “ma’am.” It seemed like she hadn’t just flinched down to her ribs.

I had to kill her. Not out of hate, but because I loved her enough to let her go. Because she was a cage wearing ill applied eyeliner.

It was me or her…

If I didn’t bury her, I was going to bury myself. That version of me tried. She tried to be small. To be nice. To be quiet when it hurt. To make everyone else comfortable in rooms that made her sick. She carved apologies into her wrists before I ever picked up a blade.

I took my lighter

And I lit her on fire. She didn’t go easy. She showed up in dreams, stood behind me in the mirror with my father’s eyes. But every time I chose my name, every time I shot up that hormone and felt it bloom behind my lungs, I gave her peace.

She was never meant to carry my name anyway. When I walk into rooms now, with this voice, this back, this heartbeat that stays steady through the siren…

I know I’m alive because I chose to be. I let one version die so another could finally fucking breathe.

If you’ve ever had to bury a version of yourself to survive, I see you. Feel free to share your story in the comments or connect with me through email poeaxtry@gmail.com

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Shark Week

It’s strangely funny how you can forget you’re trans. Suddenly, your body reminds you like a blaring, blood-soaked alarm clock. I missed my shot this week. Life got busy, I got distracted, and my calendar reminder decided to be a useless little ghost. Well to be honest the reminder I probably ignored. Per Axton usual. So now I’m sitting in a puddle of regret and crimson at 11:00 in the morning. As if I don’t work a night shift again. Ew. I took care of the mess before I started this blog post I’m not that deranged.

Last night I had to leave work early. Lunch break turned into a chaotic pilgrimage to Walmart. A 22-minute drive one way, shopping time not included. You know how wild it is to shop for “feminine hygiene” when you’re ten years into hormones? Obviously they all think they are for a lady. It’s not embarrassingly obvious they are mine or anything . It’s just surreal. Like borrowing a body that doesn’t know it’s retired from this kind of work.

Always Sneaky

I’m never prepared. You’d think I would be. But that’s the weirdest, most tender part of all this… sometimes I actually forget I’m trans. I forget that my body has shadow memories. I forget that skipping a shot can wake up something ancient and bleeding inside me. It’s almost peaceful, until it isn’t.

So here I am. Slept maybe three hours. Woke up drenched. Could double as a crime scene. It’s not. It’s just my boxers and a pair of shorts I really liked..

And I could scream, or laugh, or write about it. Today I choose to write.

Because this too is part of the joy, the horror, the mess, the miracle. The full, absurd ride of being me.

But by far the least funny part is the way I swear the cramps hurt more now. As if the goddess herself is reminding me where I came from.

Trigger Warning

TW: for those late to the party. This post mentions menstruation, dysphoria, and hormone disruption. It’s listed clearly. My posts are raw and unfiltered. Also, I have a large list of potential TWs posted. I may just pop into them at any given time (also noted). I don’t reiterate them for every single post. Neither of us want that. I put a decent amount of time into listing every and any trigger I could potentially cover. And I phoned a friend for help.. thank you KYYYYY REEEEEEAAAA!!! But if you need a tw every time for every trigger I have some news for you about life offline…. You might not be ready for this side of the internet if you need a trigger warning. This is about the reality of a transmasc body that sometimes bleeds. But let me be clear I in no way aim to offend, or trigger anyone intentionally. This is just where I’m me without (repeated) warnings. ‼

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