We’re still burning witches

Imagine performing the ultimate magic of destroying and rebuilding yourself.

You surrender to your natural ability to create.

Then once you were comfortable enough to be witnessed, you were condemned.

My name is Ashleigh.
I am a mother.
I am a woman.
I am a witch.

My trial commenced under the mid-July moon in the public forum of TikTok.

The cause?

Transformation.

The process took a decade, and the journey was dark, painful, and solitary. But in the quiet, I finally became the woman I had always wanted to be. She romanticized the most ordinary moments. She saw endless beauty in life. And when faced with the choice to create a new one, she did.

She sacrificed herself so that I could be born.

I survived the most tumultuous phase of matrescence, swimming in the sea of new motherhood for over three years. I was regaining my balance, finding stronger footing. During a moment of self-reflection, I compared my two loves: the maiden I was, and the mother I am.

The maiden was younger, thinner, more dedicated to her appearance. Her value was her beauty, and she belonged in the gaze of others.

The mother is older, radiant, and dedicated to her craft. She is the creator of beauty. Creation flows through her veins.

How amazing to see the power I am capable of, I thought.

And I presented her to the collective.

Upon sharing, I heard whispers of solidarity from my sisters. Women who had survived the same journey themselves. But it wasn’t long before word of their support propelled me in front of a new audience—one who did not recognize magic of this nature.

And that’s when I heard the first cry.

Witch!

Before I could even comprehend what was happening, I was already tethered to the stake.

The accusations varied: my age, my face, my choices. I had transformed in a way that they deemed unnatural.

Amid the chaos, I saw other women throw themselves before the gathering mob that surrounded me. Some urged the accusers to reconsider their conclusions. Others were scared for themselves.

Instead of defending my right to transform, they were defending their right not to.

Instead of questioning the validity of the accusation, they were pleading exemption from it.

The language varied, but the message was the same.

Please do not burn me, for I am not a witch.

It was no use. The verdict had already been reached.

Witch.

And so I burned.

And as the flames consumed me, I thought, how tragic that they cannot see: in condemning my magic, they condemn their own.

Transformation was my charge, yet it is the sentence we all serve.

Our evolving world, the seasons, our bodies, our minds—we are all bound to the same cycles. Witch or not, no one is exempt from the laws of nature.

The collective may have burned my flesh, but their torches cannot destroy what already burns inside.

It fuels a new kind of creation.