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.
