The people accused in the witch trials were not witches—but the stories told about them reveal something powerful. Beneath the fear and forced confessions lie fragments of folk belief, forgotten ritual, and cultural memory. If we study these histories with care and discernment, we don’t reclaim a bloodline—we reclaim an understanding of how folkloric magic once lived in the margins.

I don’t stop being a witch when the sun comes out—my magic just changes form. In spring and summer, when seasonal depression takes hold and the world feels heavy and bright, I turn inward. I rest. I read. I dream. I remind myself that rest is not the absence of magic—rest is magic. And that, too, is part of the cycle.

Writing a grimoire is an intimate act of devotion, but right now, I find myself writing not just one, but two. One is for my wife and me, a sacred space where our individual practices intertwine, strengthening both our craft and our bond. The other is a resource for the wider magical community—an offering of knowledge, shaped by my belief that magic should be accessible to all who seek it. In crafting these books, I am preserving, sharing, and evolving magic, ensuring that it remains both a deeply personal experience and a gift to others.

For a long time, I used the term 'Traditional Witchcraft' to describe my practice, but over time, I found it no longer fit. While my craft shares some structural elements with Traditional Witchcraft, its true foundation lies in historical magic—early grimoires, folklore, and the practices of cunning folk. My goal is to honor those who came before me, not through modern interpretations, but by reconstructing my craft from historical sources. That’s why I now call it 'Old-Style Witchcraft'—a term that better reflects my approach, rooted in authenticity and tradition without being bound to contemporary frameworks.

Writing about witchcraft isn’t difficult because I don’t know enough—it’s difficult because no single post can capture the depth of a magical worldview. Every time I try to put my thoughts into words, I feel the weight of what gets left out: the context, the nuance, the alternative perspectives. Will someone misinterpret a metaphor as literal? Will they assume my personal practice is a universal truth? It’s a narrow and winding path, but one worth walking. Because even if I can’t say everything, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t say anything.