The Austin Witch – A Story of Power and Belonging

When I first set foot in Austin, Texas, I imagined a city alive with music spilling from open windows, streets pulsing with hope, and every corner promising new opportunities. But the reality was far different. The sidewalks cracked beneath my feet, flickering streetlights cast long shadows on graffiti-stained walls, and the air buzzed with whispers—sharp, cold, and full of judgment.

I was a woman of color navigating a neighborhood most people avoided—a forgotten stretch of town where poverty clung to every cracked brick, and danger lurked just beyond the streetlamps. It wasn’t just the rundown buildings or the occasional siren wailing in the distance that unsettled me—it was the way I was seen. Or rather, the way I wasn’t seen.

Every time I stepped outside, the same taunts followed me like a shadow:

“Look, the witch is out!”The words cut deep, sharper than any blade. Was it the bump on my nose? The shade of my skin, too often misunderstood and feared? I couldn’t tell. The cruelty became a cold ache in my chest, settling into my bones like a bitter frost I thought would never melt. The label of “witch” was thrown at me as if it were a curse, but it became my identity—whether I wanted it or not.For a long time, I recoiled under that weight, shrinking from the world, hiding pieces of myself. But then, Andrew came into my life.

Andrew was different. He didn’t flinch when the name-calling erupted. He didn’t shy away when he looked at my skin, my hair, or my face—the one I had learned to see through a veil of shame and fear. Instead, he listened. He laughed with me under the endless Texas stars, sharing dreams I had buried deep and fears I dared not speak aloud.With Andrew, I felt seen. Whole. Worthy.Our bond grew like wildflowers in cracked concrete—unexpected but resilient. Just when the world seemed to soften, Andrew’s luck ran out. One evening, he came home, shoulders heavy, eyes shadowed with worry. He’d lost his job. The uncertainty pressed down on us both.

I wanted to help, but all I had was an old leather-bound book tucked away on a shelf—a relic from my grandmother. As a child, I had barely understood its faded symbols and cryptic rhymes. “Keep this,” she had whispered to me long ago. “One day, you’ll know when to use it.”That night, I opened the book again. My fingers trembled as I traced the delicate script, stopping on a spell that called to me like a beacon. I wasn’t sure if magic was real or just stories, but desperation made me brave.I spoke the words softly:“Boom bang, ring rong! I’m the witch, help me out of this situation that feels wrong!”As the final syllable slipped from my lips, a shiver ran down my spine. The air seemed to still, holding its breath. I felt something ancient stir within me—a whisper of power long buried.Seconds later, Andrew’s phone rang. His voice cracked as he answered. It was a job offer—better than the one he had lost, with promise and pay that could carry us forward. He looked at me, eyes wide with disbelief.“Did you…?”I only nodded, unsure how to explain, but knowing in my heart that something had changed.

That night, a truth settled deep inside me: maybe I was a witch—not the cruel label cast by others, but something older, wiser, and good. The insults had unwittingly named me.From then on, I stopped hiding. I embraced the gifts passed down from my grandmother and the women before her—women who survived on the edges, wielding strength and wisdom like armor. I learned to use my magic not to frighten, but to heal, to guide, to uplift.Andrew’s love stood steady through it all, unwavering and fierce. We married beneath a moonlit Texas sky, my imperfect nose shining with pride, my skin glowing with newfound power.The streets no longer scared me. The whispers no longer stung.

I am not just a witch.
I am the Austin Witch.

🧙🏾‍♀️ Moral of the Story:
True power comes from embracing your authentic self, even when the world mocks or misunderstands you. What others see as flaws may be your greatest magic.