Own your bitch, love your witch.


“I found my title,” I said, a little inhibited to come out with it.

I wanna do a TED talk one day and my heart is hammering against my chest in front of thirty attendants of a writing seminar? I came here for clarity so here’s one: I need confidence. Of course the cat bites itself in its tail as confidence comes with clarity: knowing what we really want, what our heart desires on a core level and which message our amazing our rebellious self yearns to shout out into the world. Here I go....

“My title is: from grumpy bitch to happy witch.”

I barely let out my sigh of relief after my daring announcement when applause and laughter and a bright YES!!! wave over me. They could have hated it… but happiness, they like the title. Cool that such a little thing, a moment of approval makes me feel so much better. My inner ice broke. After my mini success I tell the rest of my story excited as if discussing Sci Fi movies at home with my son. I’m seen. I’m heard. I’m safe.

In the afternoon during a break I listen in awe to a social diva’s power stories.

She uses trends and keywords to hammer out banal gossip lures followed by mind changing, provocative blog posts. I'm hypnotized by her social media tricks. She's wildly enthusiastic, like a siren on crack; her drug of choice are likes, millions and millions of likes. In fact, and I don’t even know if I should laugh or cry, her last post got 40 million of them. I’m happy to reach 400. Suffocation alert. Will I ever…?

She looks at me for a moment. Eyes squinted. Critical. “Are you a witch?”

“No. Not really, not in the sense of spells and herbs and…”

“You shouldn’t use that name then, she interrupts my rambling,” the masses will throw stones at you…”

I retreat to my seat like a pushed puppy. She didn’t like me. She didn’t like my title. She would know, I mean she has 40 Million hits. Not so cool such a little thing like her disapproval can make me feel so insecure so fast.

Witch, bitch…? I’m not really a bitch either. I’m much too nice for that.

That’s it. I toss the title. Too bad, it's so cool but it’s not me.

In the following hours of the workshop we do an exercise I can only recommend to people with stories they'd love to tell but don’t know yet how: Make up questions to your main ideas/chapters and let somebody else ask them. When you answer, things get clearer and when you transcribe the recorded interview you have half of your book. Remember: writers are amateurs who didn’t give up.

I switch my focus on my memoir: “Sorceress in a spacesuit.” The title is so much nicer, no resistance here, and I have half the story on paper already.

Why do I feel so blah and beige then?

The question thingy didn't work out well for a memoir but that's not it.

Back at home I swallow a cocktail of supplements from my shelf overloaded with healing drops and pills and powders. Anti stress and pro power… I fill my pretty glass contraption from Young living with one of their pure essential oils called abundance. The fragrance   I don’t meditate often enough but when I do like now, I connect to this other me, that little voice who knows – some people call it source or God or Goddess or Alien overlord, I call it my Avatar - “I trust you, show me…”


Before I go to bed I loudly proclaim a couple of my favorite affirmations, those I truly and passionately believe in. My dog looks at me, mouth open. What are you saying?

“Manifesting works when thoughts, feelings and actions align.”


My dog and I we have this communication going via images but this might have been a bit abstract for her.


I sit down on the black fuzzy carpet, which she claimed as hers and hug her. She has these huge brown eyes, so beautiful, so sad sometimes. I got her from a shelter; what does she remember from her abuse in the first year of her life? I have travelled back into my own past but with her’s it’s difficult. I might get there one day. She licks my face. I smile. “I will, watch me… and then I punish the people who hurt you.”


I take a deep breath. “You’re right!”


I am a witch.


I don’t manipulate love or death with spells from ancient books of heaven or hell – I attract and manifest the good and the bad with my thoughts and feelings. I don’t collect mushrooms and roots and brew potions with chicken feet – I use organic food like medicine and buy pills from Ray Kurzweil, a visionary tech god, who owns longevity. * Nature is a witch and she’s my BFF.

My potions are pills, my spells are mantras, and like many of the ancient witches I dream of eternal life.

I wear a silver feather on my necklace and often look at the shiny stones on my desk that say: freedom and abundance. For a while I carried around a little power object pouch, which a friend had made for me. It reminded me not to react when the judgmental boss went into her tirades or the evil landlord knocked at the door. My mind was re-minded by all kinds of magical tricks to focus on the positive. I had uncluttered my house, got rid of toxic ideas and people and found treasures in my mess. My mind is my magic wand and my feelings are the spells.


I fell asleep with a smile. I am a modern witch.


Screaming loud noise from this fucking building site that tortures the neighborhood since months wakes me up and destroys my dreams.

Gawd, it’s 7 a.m.!!  I step outside and yell at a group of workers: “You guys are relentless!”  I slam the door. “WTF!!”


Wait: It’s not the fault of these poor guys who have to do their job. Now I feel bad, I haven’t been angry like this for the last two years. Then, before I went into the adventurous journey into my beliefs, I had been so unhappy - I was unbeknownst to me chronically grumpy. My anger lashing out often slashed my friendly façade. You hurt me? I hurt you back. I hated this unfair life… and we are so right to be angry. People suck. Life sucks…


OMG. I was a bitch. Situations rush by my eyes like they are supposed to do short before you die: I really hadn’t been that nice.


My defensiveness just died. I got the clarity I had asked for. Thank you wild girl with 40 Million likes!


Even if they often don’t seem to be – people are our friends, messengers from our unconscious. They take on roles to make us see – and we spit into the mirrors.


I’m not riding a broom but in a mini. I don't care what the masses say. My message is for women who know, suspect or feel their truth. Who have enough of their emotional chains and the belief prison they are in.


There is more to life and it reveals itself when all the clutter of the past is gone.


I would never have gotten to this amazing freedom of acceptance or would have transformed my crap into gold without owning my anger. Travelling into my anger became my guide, my friend and in the end my treasure. It brought me to my magic.


As a recovered bitch and loving witch I’m here to share the magic.