Frequently, during my workshops here at the Cottage, or when I extend an invitation for those following me on social media to ask questions, one inquiry I often receive is about my journey into witchcraft: How did I become a witch? When did I know? How did I know?
I can't pinpoint a single transformative moment when I began identifying as a witch. Even now, if someone were to ask me what "kind" of witch I am, I wouldn't have a ready answer. Back then, it wasn't about fitting into a specific category or completing a quiz to define myself as "sea" or "eclectic." I simply was. Several experiences contributed to my understanding of this state of being, starting from around the age of seven.
My parents built our home on a property beside a creek, where a previous house had burned down. While playing outside, we often unearthed treasures buried in the dirt, remnants of the fire hidden until we dug in new garden beds. In the front yard stood a magnificent old oak, its branches forming a nearly complete circle that my mother carefully maintained, creating a sheltered space around its trunk. I still feel a connection to that oak, revisiting it occasionally when I return to my hometown, now from the other side of the fence, having passed it on to another family.
On one occasion, my mother witnessed an apparition trailing my little brother into her bedroom at night, vanishing through the wall as the sleepy three-year-old climbed into bed. That encounter became my first ghost story.
While our house was under construction, we lived on my grandparents' farm. There was the main house, where we resided with Nan and Pa, with cork floors, family photos displayed in plastic pockets on the back of the kitchen door, and a long, dim hallway leading to the toilet, lined with large, framed portraits of ancestors from the early 20th century. Their serious, unsmiling expressions and the peculiar sheen of the old photographs made their gaze seem unsettling, as if they were watching us. I always hurried through that hallway, the living areas beyond like a sanctuary.
My great-grandparents also lived on the farm in a very small cottage with white weatherboards overrun by creeping ivy, nestled among towering pine trees. My great-grandmother made a small tea set for me, complete with delicate white china cups and saucers adorned with teeny flowers. She would brew black tea and bake her signature shortbread to enjoy under one of the large trees in the expansive gardens around the homestead. My Nan, an avid gardener, created beautiful spaces with secret rooms, tranquil pathways, and ponds, where I felt a special kind of magic in listening to the whispers of plants and trees.
In the cottage enjoying a cup of tea from the set my great-grandmother made for me.
Thanks to my Nan, I developed a love for gardening, a passion shared by my mother, while my aunty for as long as I can remember has run an herb business that now provides me with the highest quality ingredients for my tea blends! She can make a cup of tea taste better than you could ever make yourself. While she may never claim to be a witch, there is certainly magick running through her fingers, especially when it comes to plant allies.
I also recall accompanying my other Nan on expeditions to find crystals, clad in hand-knitted wool jumpers and gumboots, armed with a pail, spade, and packed lunch. We stomped across paddocks, climbed hills, and skirted around quicksand in the creek beds. It was such an adventure! She was a member of the local lapidary club, and her house was adorned with specimens alongside handmade dolls and framed cross-stitch pieces. Her gravel driveway sparkles with quartz and tourmaline, collected over the years and tossed amongst the stones when they didn’t come up nicely after a tumble, they were too small for much else, or had too many inclusions.
None of these women embodied a witchy aesthetic or considered themselves practitioners of magic. Yet, through them, I learned about hearthcraft, connecting with plant allies and spirits of the land, the energetics of crystals, and much more. With the exception of my great-grandmother who said grace at every meal and attended church on Sundays, ours wasn't a religious family. This absence of rigid structure allowed me to explore my surroundings with an open mind, paving the way for my journey into witchcraft.
The first witch I ever met, and the validation of magic it provided, occurred in my local library. I was seated on the floor in the "new world" section, absorbed in a book on witchcraft—an exhilarating find in the public library of a small country town in the pre-internet era, where mentioning the word "witch" still felt taboo. A woman, accompanied by her little boy, approached me as I read. Though I never saw her again, her otherworldly, knowing presence left a lasting impression. She crouched down beside me, took the book from my hands, speaking to me about practising witchcraft and cautioning me against dark magic. As she spoke, she ran her thumb across the fore edge of the book without looking, allowing it to fall open. The pages revealed a section on black magic. I was enthralled. How had she done that? Had she memorised the book's contents beforehand? Before leaving, she gifted me a small stone—a treasure I still have today.
Subsequently, I received spell books from Santa, and a locally made wooden mortar and pestle as a primary school graduation gift, a testament to my parent's effort to nurture my burgeoning interest in witchcraft. I had a fluffy black cat, cheeky and very laid back, called Pyewackett and my great-grandmother had siamese, which I think would have made excellent familiars. I delved into the herb cupboard, expanded my crystal collection, utilised crafting supplies and the odd coloured taper candles found like rare treasures in local gift shops to work my magick. I would devour the now out of print quarterly witchcraft magazine I disbelievingly found at the newsagent. Each spell and ritual felt like a step toward defining a craft that was uniquely mine, as I believe every practitioner's journey is as individual as a fingerprint.
I formed a friendship with a girl at school who shared my interest in witchcraft. Together, we conducted seances and anointed ourselves with flying salves under her mother's guidance, keeping us safe as we ventured into the ‘in between’. We marked out circles in the paddock with chunks of white quartz, casting circle, calling in the corners. It never felt like mere playacting or donning costumes to be discarded afterward; it was an integral part of who we were—witches, makers of magick, influencers of divine energy.
I struggled with completing school projects and homework, but would immerse myself in books on witchcraft, delving into the history of witches and spells. Researching and studying remains a cherished aspect of my journey; I am endlessly fascinated by the pursuit of knowledge.
Even now, I'm guilty of leaving important work until the night before a deadline, yet you'll find dog-eared pages and bookmarks in well-read witchcraft and spell books scattered throughout my house. The mere mention of a crystal-hunting expedition would have me packed and ready in a heartbeat, but these days, it's my children who eagerly scour my Nan's driveway for the prettiest, most sparkly rocks, which she gladly supplies them with bags to carry home.
I still sense the overwhelming presence of spirits when I'm in the garden or wandering through bushland, though I've developed a severe allergy to cats. My great-grandmother's little cottage has been taken over by the ivy now, no longer filled with the smell of her baking. Yet, the tradition of offering solace and healing through a comforting cup of tea remains a steadfast part of who I am, thanks to the culture of our family and the teachings of my aunty. And when it comes to herbal tea, I've been spoiled for life—unable to settle for anything less than the best quality, staying well away from anything bought from the supermarket.
I am so grateful to the women in my family and the memories of my childhood. They are the integral threads woven through the warp of my life, guiding me along this winding path. I too hope to one day become part of the weft in someone else’s magical web, a great-grandmother inspiring stories and nurturing hearts over cups of tea in the garden.