Witchcraft felt like power… until I felt the Holy Spirit.

I grew up rough. That’s no secret to anyone who knows my story. I come from trailer parks, Section 8 housing, and a long line of addicts, criminals, and the mentally ill. I was in elementary school when I decided I wanted to be a writer. By middle school, I wanted to be a drug dealer.

Back and forth I went—bouncing between dreams and destruction—until I became a teenage mom at 16. Then, at 19, I stood in front of my fiancé’s casket. I couldn’t tell what life should be anymore. All I knew was that it was messy. It had always been messy. And now, it felt like the poor luck that had plagued my family had finally landed on me, too.

There was no changing my mindset. I was trapped in a vicious cycle—wanting to do better, not knowing how, and always running back to the very thing that was killing everyone I loved. Over and over.

I became a single mother at 19 in the instant it took a bullet to steal my fiancé’s life. At 21, I buried my daughter. She was born with a broken heart—literally—and I remember thinking that the universe must be playing some sick joke on me.

Those deaths changed me.

But the pain went deeper than just those two moments. I’d been traumatized since childhood. Stack C-PTSD and a neurodivergent brain on top of that mess, and I was just broken. Worse than that, I felt uniquely broken. The kind of broken that nothing and no one could fix.

Therapy didn’t work. Medications didn’t work. Self-help books were just paper. None of it could touch the pain that was etched into me. My body is covered in self-harm scars and tattoos because if I couldn’t take the pain away, I could at least glorify it. People would send me prayers and I’d think they were crazy.

Prayer? That couldn’t fix what was wrong with me.

Jesus? Absolutely not.

The Lord wasn’t good—not to me. My heart was hard.

Then I met her. A woman who lived next to me after I moved to a new city. She would later become my best friend, but at the time, she was just a neighbor who looked me in the eye and said I had “things” tied to me. Things from my past. She told me I was special.

She was a witch. She practiced dark magic.

I knew I shouldn’t be near her. My own family warned me to keep my distance—and oddly, she knew my whole family. But we became friends. I don’t believe in coincidences, so I knew this was happening for a reason.

Not long after, I visited my aunt—the woman who raised me, who was also a witch—and she introduced me to someone else. Another woman. A “light witch.” She became a dear friend, and I learned most of what I knew starting out from her. She did regular cord-cutting spells and energy cleansings, always insisting that I was Good, that I had Purpose, that I could change my fate.

I didn’t have to be tied to darkness.

That’s when everything pivoted.

I started diving into magic full-time. Because of my addiction, I constantly had people at my house—using, buying, dealing. I’ll never forget the first time I started learning about candles and crystals. I was just a baby witch back then.

One day, a group of strangers—friends of friends, like everyone is when you’re in the madness—walked into my room and stopped dead in their tracks. “Oh. My. God,” one of them said. “Does anyone else feel that?”

The mood was right. The vibes were perfect. The energy was electric.

I was in love.

I quickly became known as “the rock lady.” (For the record, not the nickname I would’ve picked for myself.) But in those circles, names stick. The energy I carried, the vibe I created—people noticed. Even when others would steal my things, they always found their way back to me. Astrology was my favorite subject in the matter, and I was thoroughly obsessed. There isn’t a subject in the occult that I am not widely knowledgable about.

That life was contagious.

Eventually, I had an occult library, did spells, practiced palm reading and reiki, and manifested everything I thought I wanted. I read tarot professionally—even for psychics who weren’t real but had the audience. I was rolling in money, had anything material I wanted, and I thought I was happy.

But everything comes at a cost.

My car started getting stolen. REGULARLY. A man forced me to use the needle for the first time—and I loved it. That made me an IV drug user. Health issues showed up. My entire life revolved around witchcraft. I was obsessed. Consumed. Numb. Lonely.

But my ego told me I was in control.

Then came the spiral.

Within a year, I was nearly murdered by someone I thought I had loved. I was fully addicted to the needle. My house was raided, and I was at the center of a drug bust. I lost everything. I ended up in a jail cell.

No longer a mother. No longer a friend. Not a daughter.

Just me.

Pitiful me.

It was the weekend after Mother’s Day. I was in bunk 405, curled up and crying silently so the other girls couldn’t hear me.

And I said it.

Words I didn’t even believe in at the time—but I said them anyway.

God, help me. Please.

Later that day, I was released to a faith-based treatment center. I hated it at first. I was glad to be free—but I didn’t want to do the hard stuff. I pushed myself physically, but emotionally and spiritually, I was just faking it. Deep down, I still believed I was too broken to be healed.

When my dad brought me my things, I asked him to bring my tarot cards.

I took them to my room, laid them out with some crystals, candles, and sage—then sat and cried.

I knew I would never touch them again.

I didn’t know it at the time, but what I felt was conviction. The Lord had met me there.

Treatment wasn’t easy. But I gave up everything I used to cling to for control—and I gave it to God.

As someone who’s felt powerless her entire life, that first step was terrifying.

But my life has never been easier since.

Today, I don’t have to fight the universe to get what I want. I don’t have to manipulate energy or cast spells or constantly fear losing what I’ve gained. I pray. I sit back. I work hard—and I don’t worry.

Because I know God’s will for my life. I trust His direction.

And that kind of peace?

That’s a different kind of power.

That’s a different kind of strength.

That’s a different kind of love.

There is so much more that I could write on the topic of witchcraft and what life was like in the madness, most people when they hear about witches, they roll their eyes, think it’s BS, or just disregard the fact that such a thing truly exists outside of fairytales.

Let me remind you, we live in a supernatural world. We serve a supernatural God. Witchcraft is just as real as prayer. But everything comes with a cost. The things I experienced were not because I was a “bad witch” or “evil”, no, I was kind with good energy and even better intentions…but the Lord does NOT play about what is His. Giving up control, and feeling the conviction were both life-changing experiences for me. I continue to live out life-changing experiences because of God’s grace to this day. I practice obedience and learning more about living in His will than my own…and it is so worth it.

If you are struggling, please, don’t hesitate to reach out. The world is scary- Life doesn’t have to be.

Love always,
Courtney.