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⚠️ This blog shares my personal, sometimes painful experiences with MS and mental health. My intention is to speak honestly and offer solidarity—not to harm or replace professional advice. I’m not a doctor or therapist, just someone who gets how hard it can get. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone. Please reach out to a trusted friend, support group, or professional. You deserve help and hope.⚠️
please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction, and use AI to help solve this issue so you can understand it lol
well a very good morning to everyone who reads this blog and hope that things go well and that you have an excellent weekend sending peace healing love and light...
Finding Magic in a Body That Sometimes Forgets
The Goddess never promised us perfect bodies.
She promised the turning of the Wheel.
Birth. Growth. Decline. Death. Then the mystery begins again.
As Wiccans, we celebrate the seasons because they remind us that nothing remains the same forever. The mighty oak stands tall in summer, sheds every leaf in autumn, sleeps through winter, and returns again in spring.
Perhaps our own bodies are simply another season of the Wheel.
Living with Multiple Sclerosis can feel like your own body has declared war upon itself. The nerves misfire. The muscles rebel. Fatigue arrives like an unwelcome spirit, settling over everything until even making a cup of tea feels like climbing a mountain.
From a medical perspective, MS is an autoimmune disease. That understanding matters, and modern medicine has brought treatments that can slow its progress and improve quality of life.
But medicine isn't the only language people use to understand suffering.
For many Wiccans, illness is not a punishment from the Goddess, nor proof that we've somehow failed spiritually. Nature itself is full of storms, broken branches, lightning strikes, and trees that grow twisted yet continue reaching for the sun.
Why should humans be any different?
When I light a candle, I don't expect it to cure my MS.
I light it because even the smallest flame pushes back the darkness.
When I walk through the woods, I don't believe the trees can repair damaged myelin.
But they remind me that life continues, even when it changes shape.
When I celebrate Lammas, Samhain, or Beltane, I'm not pretending my symptoms disappear.
I'm remembering that I'm still part of something much older than my diagnosis.
The Wheel keeps turning.
Some days my body feels like winter.
Everything slows.
Everything hurts.
Nothing grows.
Other days are spring.
Energy returns, if only for a few precious hours.
I have learned not to curse the winter.
Without it, I would never recognise spring when she arrives.
Perhaps magic isn't about making disease disappear.
Perhaps the greatest spell we ever cast is refusing to let illness define who we are.
The Goddess is present in the healthy body.
She is equally present in the scarred one.
The God walks with the marathon runner.
He also walks beside the person moving at eight miles an hour on a mobility scooter.
Neither path is holier than the other.
Both are sacred.
If MS has taught me anything, it is that strength isn't measured by how far we can walk.
It's measured by whether we choose to keep walking the Wheel, however slowly, however painfully, and however differently from what we once imagined.
Blessed Be.
Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)
