The ancestral fire never dies; it simply waits for your breath to make it a flame.
Romanticise Your Life, the Witchy Woo Way
There is a sanitized, Pinterest-flavored version of “romanticising your life” that suggests if you simply buy a linen apron and arrange your sourdough just so, the existential dread will vanish. That is, quite frankly, about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
The idea that life only becomes meaningful once it is organised, optimised, healed, decluttered, colour-coded, or finally witnessed by the right audience is a remarkably persistent lie, and one witches have never had much patience for. A witch understands, often instinctively, that life does not require improvement before it deserves attention. It requires presence.
To romanticise your life the witchy “woo” way is not about aesthetic perfection. It is a feral act of defiance. In the realization that your kitchen is an altar, your morning commute is a pilgrimage, and you are the ancient, hungry ghost haunting your own hallways. You know it is about taking up space in a world that would prefer you remained a quiet, predictable footnote.
To romanticise your life is not to make it softer. It is to make it yours.
Give Your Objects an Attitude Problem
The Theology of the Cupboard: Beyond the Myth of Decluttering
In the spirit of a disgruntled troll’s luxury suite, we must stop treating our belongings like inanimate plastic. Most people “declutter”. A word that is, quite frankly, as temporary and hollow as a sugar-spun bridge. We’ve all fallen for it: you bin that item you haven’t touched in six months, only to find you desperately need it eight days later and have to rebuy it.
It does seem to lean into the need for over consumption, doesn’t it? A cycle of penance that serves no one but the shops, marketed particularly well as being helpful. In truth the concept of it is.
However, when romanticising her life, A witch does not “declutter.” She curates with intent.
Your favorite mug isn’t just ceramic, and it doesn’t just hold a drink; it’s a chalice of intent. Your morning coffee isn’t a “beverage”; it’s an ancient brew of beans, a liquid fire inherited from the ancestors that ignites the day.
If your mug doesn’t feel like it could hold a potion to turn your enemies into useful garden mulch, why is it in your cupboard?
Everything you own should exist with a clear, almost aggressive intention.
Sacrifices to the Rubbish Lord
Instead of the constant, flickering effort of “removing,” focus on intentional filling. A witch decides she is going to occupy her home completely.
If something no longer serves its purpose, or has already fulfilled its destiny, it is not merely “thrown out.” It is sacrificed to the Rubbish Lord. And let it be known: the Rubbish Lord is a stickler for protocol. He prefers it if you honor the sacrifice with organization first, neatly bundled, categorized, and offered up with the grim satisfaction of a debt settled.
Suddenly its romantic, isn’t it? Devoting some time to make sure your home feels curated, intentional and cosy. The kind of place where you are able to create your rituals, spells, writing in peace, comfort and safety.
Weaving the Armor
This intentionality extends to your own skin. When you brush your hair, don’t just detangle the knots of sleep; weave your armor for the day. As you lace your boots, do it with the focused precision of a woman about to march into a storm she created herself. When you shower don’t just need a quick wash, Let the water wash your soul, cleanse your heart and remove any sticky residue that is holding you back. Make your own soaps tailored to your exact needs and use it with intention. Shower with your rose quartz as you cleanse it, cleanse yourself to. (Just make sure to dry it properly, crystal care is important) Ritualise your wash time.
You aren’t just “getting ready.” You are preparing a landscape. Giving your environment a personality and then demanding it cooperate with your vision.
The world will try to tell you that these things are mundane. That a house is just bricks and hair is just keratin. They are wrong. Everything is a tool, every room is a portal, and every morning is a chance to remind your “Frederbrick” exactly who holds the lease on his soul.
Stop Mumbling Your Magic
Romanticise Tuesday’s: Or every other day for that matter.
Your morning drink isn’t just a caffeine delivery system. It’s a liquid contract, a moment of gratitude toward your ancestors, and a promise to ignite your future. When you stir it, do it with the focus of a captain steering through a fog. Don’t just “hope” for a good day; command the daylight to justify its existence.
The same rules apply to your desires. Don’t whisper your manifestations and hope the universe is good at lip-reading. If you want a life that feels like a Gothic novel, you have to write the dialogue with some weight.
Rewriting the Ancestral Record
It is common knowledge that your past predicts your future. Therefore, it is vitally important to ensure that you, in this present moment – are telling the stories of your past in a way that reflects the future you intend to walk into. (I dive deeper into why your manifestation might be stalling in my other post, so check that out if you’re tired of shouting into the void).
The Power of Spite
Instead of saying, “I’d like a nice day,” try: “I am the architect of this Tuesday, and I shall build it out of sunlight and spite.” Say the whole thing. Don’t give the cosmos crumbs and wonder why you’re starving. Never be afraid to do things out of spite. Like anger or fear, spite is a powerful emotion that carries huge energetic transference. The trick is to use the energy rather than letting the energy use you. If the world tells you that you’re “too much,” use that friction to sharpen your blade.
The Boldness of Obsession
Embrace your morning ritual as an act of creation, a declaration of intent. Let every sip be a reminder that you hold the pen to your own story. As you step into the day, wear your confidence like armor made of stardust, ready to face whatever challenges Frederbrick or the world throws your way.
Remember, it’s not about the volume of your voice but the clarity of your conviction. The universe is a busy place; it listens more intently to those who speak with certainty. Let your dreams be bold and your aspirations grand. Let your obsessions be heavy enough to carry you through to delivery.
The Romance in the Mundane
Cottagecore isn’t just about the cottage; it’s about the core. It is blood on lace, sweetness with teeth, sugar sharpened by spice. It is the exquisite duality women are graced with, and you are expected to act accordingly. Anything less is a failure of imagination and frankly unacceptable.
The hearth is not a place of chores. Cleaning the floor is a banishing ritual. Every sweep removes the stagnant residue of yesterday’s doubts, the half-lived thoughts, the energies that loiter when you forget to claim your space. You are not tidying; you are clearing the field so something better can arrive.
The garden, even if it exists only as three stubborn herbs clinging to life on a windowsill, must be treated as sacred ground. Tend them as if they are the last surviving remnants of Hades’ own backyard, ancient witnesses to cycles of death, return, and quiet defiance. What you care for grows. What you neglect learns how to leave.
The mirror is not for flaw-hunting. It is for recognition. Look for the thousand names hiding in your eyes. Remind yourself that you are silk with an edge, softness sharpened into precision, and then go out and make the world hesitate when you enter a room.
Romanticising your life means competing for your own attention.
We expect men to joust for our affection, to prove themselves worthy of our gaze, but when was the last time you tamed a dragon for yourself? Being your own suitor means writing yourself letters from the edge of your sanity, choosing yourself with devotion rather than convenience, and buying the rose stolen straight from the underworld simply because it pleased you to do so.
You are not here to soften yourself so you are easier to swallow. You are a heaven-made life bringer, a storm-forged warrior of creation, capable of feats you have only just begun to remember. Blaze those trails without apology.
The Manifesto of the Everyday
The witchy way is not aesthetic rebellion; it is a refusal to live a lukewarm life. It is a commitment to being too much, too loud, too fierce, too deeply feminine to be contained by a casual “wyd?” text from fate.
So put on your thunder-boots. Light the candle. Stir your tea clockwise for growth and counter-clockwise to tell your anxieties to bugger off. These are not small acts. They are declarations.
This world does not need you quieter, smaller, or more agreeable. It needs your wild.
Do not dim.
The Architecture of the Home
Most people see a house as four walls and a roof designed to keep the rain off the upholstery. Or worse, they try to live temporarily, constantly concerned about resale or market value.
A witch refuses to inhabit her own life as if it might need to be liquidated later. She sees a series of portals. The threshold of your front door is a border crossing. When you enter, you should feel the shift in the air, the way the shadows settle back into their corners because the Master of the House has returned.
If you haven’t named your house, you’re missing out on a very specific kind of psychological warfare.
My charming little home is called Frederbrick, because Fredrick was taken and, frankly, it seems to enjoy the concept. Frederbrick and I have a relationship built on mutual respect and the occasional threat. When the house decides to eat my keys or hide my favourite lipstick, I don’t just look for them. I launch a formal protest. Informing the hallway that if my belongings are not returned immediately, I will cease all cleaning and decoration. I tell him, quite grumpily, that I will make him so uninviting no one will ever want to step inside him again.
He usually coughs the keys up within ten minutes. Houses, like toddlers and ancient deities, are surprisingly susceptible to the fear of being ignored.
If your home doesn’t feel like it’s holding its breath waiting for you to walk through it, you haven’t claimed enough space yet, and you probably haven’t issued enough threats. A witch never underestimates the power of a well-placed ultimatum and a little fear to get things moving. So go on. Give your house a name that’s just a bit off. Threaten your furniture. Demand that your life justify its complexity. Because the moment you stop being polite to the universe is the moment it finally starts listening.
Frederbrick having his own personality might seem delusional to some, but all the best homes do. Giving mine a name and paying intentional care to him isn’t just easier. It’s ritualistic, it’s comical, and it brings me immense joy. If that’s delusional, I’m all for it.
