Greetings my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones.

I am off today for a floating holiday. I get two of those with my company—a concept I’ve never experienced before in my working life—and next week I get my actual birthday off. It feels wild to have that space, to sleep in a bit, move through the morning ritual without a rush, and sit down to write.

Mother Nature decided to set the stage last night with her own dramatic energy, too. We had a massive monsoon roll through yesterday evening. It started with pounding thunder, flash lightning, and actual hail—yes, hail in the middle of a desert summer! Then the wind whipped up, and WHOOOSAA, the rain came down hard and heavy. My entire patio flooded out, which is a total first for us. IT WAS AWESOME! I sat right there in my chair on the patio, feet pulled up, watching the water rush across the concrete, letting the cool mist soak in, and drinking in every second of that raw elemental power.

It’s hilarious what happens when you finally open yourself up to your guides, ancestors, gods, and goddesses. Your life shifts, your perspective clears, and the fog just lifts. Suddenly, everything gets remarkably clear. It is lightyears away from my past in Christianity—where I spent years tip-toeing around, questioning my own damn walk, and constantly checking to make sure I was staying aligned with a book drafted by a room full of men whose primary spiritual goal was keeping women controlled, quiet, and second-guessing their every breath. No thanks. Breaking free of that middleman religion, swapping out patriarchal rules for authentic divine connection, and going straight to the source isn’t just freeing—it’s downright liberating.

Besides, every morning in the shower, the goddesses get me straight—and really, where else am I going to go? That is where they speak to me the most, right alongside the quiet hours on the patio in the early morning or late at night after a storm like last night’s.

Yesterday, during that quiet space, I was given my spiritual name. Only one person in my inner circle knows it—yes Vickie, that’s you—and I am telling Ronnie today while we’re both off enjoying the house together. Unpacking the history, origin, and actual root meaning behind this name left me humbled, deeply honored, and hit with a massive wave of personal empowerment. It carries real weight. But as for revealing the name itself and its full meaning to the rest of the world? I’m keeping that close to the chest for now. Some things are meant to be held as sacred ground before you go laying them out for the public to chew on.

That brings me directly to the download I got this morning while blow-drying my hair, making sure my root area stays healthy.

For those who don’t know, I am notorious for cutting and coloring my hair. This year, I made the firm determination to let it grow out, sticking strictly to trims every four to six months. I tried to quit coloring altogether, but I got tired fast of the lighter tones showing through. So, I went back to my classic dark auburn—a shade I’ve been wearing since the 1990s. My go-to for years was Feria Chocolate Cherry (I stocked up on that like the apocalypse was coming).

I spent my entire life being led to believe my natural hair was just some generic ash brown. But I went to Sally’s recently, and the girl working there took one look and pointed out that my natural roots are actually a rich dark auburn! I went back and looked at old photos of myself from when I was younger before I ever touched hair dye, and damn if she wasn’t 100% right. So dark auburn it is. Here I am, right back where I started, even if the box calls it Cinnamon now. You can try to mask the surface all day long, but eventually, the real foundation at the base always shows through. You can’t escape what’s in your roots.

Which brings us squarely to the bigger topic of roots altogether.

It’s funny how this entire year has been about getting back to my roots, especially after losing my mom. I’ve wanted to re-root myself more than ever—something I’ve actually been trying to figure out for years, even decades. I used to constantly think about moving back east, closer to where I originated. But whenever we talked about moving, my father-in-law—Pop—would stop us in our tracks. He was more of a real father to me than my own ever was, and I miss that man so deeply. He used to say, “STAY THERE!! You put down roots in Tucson. You both made a much better life there! Don’t you dare come back this way! Keep going, you two, don’t give up!”

Sitting here writing this out right now, I can literally feel him speaking through the room, and damn, Pop was right. When we landed in Tucson back in 2007, we stepped off the plane with six bags of luggage—two of which were carrying a massive custom computer tower, monitors, and peripherals I built with my own two hands—and the rest was just clothes. We had no jobs lined up, no car, and didn’t know a single soul out here. We started from absolute zero.

Now? Almost twenty years later, we have solid full-time careers, a home we love, a car, eight incredible fur-babies holding down the fort, and each other. My heart has belonged to Arizona since I was a little girl, but Pop saw what we were building here before I could fully step into it without fear. He knew that the roots you grow where you bloom are just as sacred as where you planted your feet to start. Maybe we are meant to be here for good. Maybe this is where our deepest roots actually live now. Thank you, Pop, for pushing us to keep going.

My tagline centers on living a bright life with deep roots. Naturally, there is always a resident audience member who loves to copycat and perform an entire theatrical routine about it. Vickie actually addressed this exact type of behavior in her post Hi, My Name is Vickie, calling out the people who insist on mimicking and making everything about themselves. And right on cue, like clockwork, this person sprinted to Facebook to post her own dramatic counter-statement—and then immediately blocked me. Again.

It is the absolute highest form of adult comedy. Block, unblock, block, unblock… I’m pretty sure her thumb gets more of a workout on that block button than she gets anywhere else.

At this point, you can’t even get annoyed; you just have to pull up a chair and laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. Some people have this desperate, inescapable habit of reading anything I write, anything Vickie writes, or honestly anything posted by anyone on the internet, and instantly convincing themselves it’s a personal attack on their delicate existence. If it’s not about them, they invent a whole fictional cinematic universe where it is. If it is directed at them, they immediately launch into a full-blown high school cafeteria routine—posting passive-aggressive Facebook updates, crying victim, and running around trying to gather a choir to validate them. And the husband joins right in! Imagine being a grown adult spending your afternoon playing digital tag-team defense over a blog post. It is hilarious, embarrassing, and the exact reason I cut the cord on those friendships.

Psychology has formal names for this circus—we call it classic triangulation and “flying monkey” behavior. It’s the ultimate weapon of emotional toddlers who lack the basic maturity to hold an honest, direct conversation or look at their own internal wreckage. When you can’t handle real-life accountability, you build an audience of cheerleaders on Facebook to tell you you’re right. You have to laugh at the energy wasted on trying to control a narrative that nobody else is even paying attention to.

This particular picture posted was something about “remembering your roots.” But does this person even understand what it actually means to have deep roots, or to remember where you come from?

It’s not a decorative plaque with your kids’ names on it from Hobby Lobby. Real roots aren’t mass-produced home decor meant to look aesthetic on a wall. If you want to talk about roots, talk about your bloodline. Talk about the ancestors whose grit, trials, survival, and spirit flow through your veins right now. Those are fucking roots.

I know where I come from. I haven’t just glanced at a family tree; I spent the money, put in the grueling hours, and did the deep archival research to trace my lineage across the old world. I know the soil my family walked on—stretching through Hungary, Austria, Germany, France, Ireland, and England. On my father’s mother’s side, I can trace our blood back to the 1500s. On my mother’s side, I’ve mapped us back to the 1800s. I know the history, the cultural traditions, the ancient customs, the spiritual beliefs, and even the old family recipes passed down through generations. I know what my ancestors endured so I could stand here today. That history is earned, respected, and carried in my spirit—it isn’t something you buy at a craft store to hang over a sofa.

Beyond bloodlines and family trees, having deep roots means being deeply, undeniably rooted in yourself.

Not wrapped around your kids, not anchored to your spouse, not defined by your job title, and certainly not seeking life support from the validation of digital spectators who couldn’t carry your shadow on their best day. It means knowing exactly who the hell you are at your absolute core when the room goes dead silent, the lights dim, and the audience packs up their fake applause and goes home.

It requires rolling up your sleeves, spitting on your hands, and digging down into the soil of your own soul. It’s unearthing the skeletons you tried to pretend weren’t there, yanking out the rotten, decaying bits by the stem, and planting clean, fierce, resilient seeds so something powerful can actually take root.

I did the shadow work. I sat in the dirt, took off the rose-colored glasses, and did the heavy, exhausting, deeply uncomfortable labor of confronting everything buried in the dark. I didn’t just light a candle, post a trendy quote, and call it healing—I did the actual blood, sweat, and tears heavy lifting. Every single day, I am evolving into the woman I was always born to be: completely unapologetic, razor-sharp, clear-headed, and standing on my own damn two feet. The era of playing small to make fragile people comfortable is dead and buried. I am no longer living to appease anyone, impress anyone, or smooth over toxic edges just to protect somebody else’s delicate, bruised ego.

That is the grand divide between doing the actual soul work and just playing pretend for social media aesthetic. Anyone can buy a fake plant, but it takes actual grit to grow real roots. I refuse to sit in the manure of life, make myself comfortable, and rot there just because it’s familiar. I choose to dig my way out, wash the grime off my hands, and manifest a life that honors where I came from, where I stand right now, and where I’m going.

That is what it means to have deep roots. It’s knowing who you are at the deepest level, cutting through the performative noise, and standing unshakeable in your own truth.

Part of rootedness, too, is allowing yourself to anchor into your actual physical space—wherever you are. For me, that’s right here in the desert, in the Southwest. Today, our new furniture arrives, and for the first time in a very long time, I am letting myself feel the joy of making a home without the shadow of fear standing over me.

To be completely honest, the last time I truly felt settled in a real home was back in New Jersey, in a little pre-Revolutionary rented house. It was cozy, comfortable, and full of character. Then came the move out here, followed by a blur of apartments and two different townhouses. In the last place, we were promised it was our forever home—that we could settle in, make it ours, and stay. But after the landlady’s husband passed away, she was the manager and shifted dramatically in an unhealthy way. Everything changed, and we ultimately had to leave.

Carrying that kind of housing instability around makes you hesitant to put down actual roots. You hold back from fully decorating, fully buying, or fully settling in because you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. But we’ve been in this place for years now. Our landlord absolutely loves us and doesn’t want us going anywhere. It has taken time, but I am finally laying down that old anxiety and letting Pop’s words echo in my head. We put down deep roots right here in Tucson. If you stepped inside right now, it looks like a proper witch’s cottage—layered, warm, grounded, and sacred. Today, with the new furniture coming in, it feels more like home than ever.

While I sit here at the auto shop writing this out, waiting on diagnostic tests for Fiona, Ronnie is back home hanging new curtain rods and sheer curtains to give the space that perfect country-southwest witch vibe. I’m hoping Fiona’s check engine light is something minor covered under warranty so we can clear emissions and move on with our day off. We might venture out to the Cheesecake Factory later, or we might just stay local on our side of town since more monsoon storms are rolling in. Other than Fiona and waiting for the furniture, my schedule is wide open.

Speaking of Ronnie, I have to take a moment to brag on my husband. He got his midyear review at work recently, and they gave him a glowing report—zero reprimands, zero coaching notes, just a clear “keep doing exactly what you’re doing.” I never doubted him for a second. I am so damn proud of him for standing tall, working through everything he’s been through, and refusing to give up. He is officially 22 months sober—that is roughly 670 days of pure strength and dedication. He looks better, feels better, and is doing so much better. He still has his good days and bad days navigating his brain injury, and we both know he’ll never be 100% back to where he was before, but he shows up every single day anyway. Neither of us is giving up.

Everything shifted when I stopped fighting with myself and allowed myself to bloom. That internal shift changed our whole dynamic. We don’t argue or fight like we used to—we talk things out, listen, and keep communication as the priority. It is amazing what unfolds when you open your ears, heart, mind, and soul to witchcraft, honor your deities, and stop trying to force yourself into boxes that were never built for you. Life has a way of aligning itself when you clear out the dead weight and let yourself grow.

PS: I see you checking in. Keep watching—maybe you’ll actually learn something, do your own hard shadow work, and grow for once. But make no mistake: you will never be allowed back into my life, back into my fold, or granted a seat at my table ever again. You are barred from my heart and barred from my home. I’ll keep living rent-free in yours, though. Winks.