You Were Always Magic

You've always known,

even when the world told you to forget,

even when they said it was childish, dangerous, or wrong.

Still—you knew.

You've heard it in the silence between your heartbeats.

You've seen it flicker in the corner of your eye.

You've felt it in the chill before the storm-

-in the ache that rises before the grief arrives,

-in the knowing that can't be traced or proven—but never lies.

You were born with this.

Before the shame, before the schooling, before the hollowing out of what made you strange and beautiful, they taught you to call it instinct instead of intuition,

coincidence instead of divination,

imagination instead of insight,

But you were never confused.

You were coerced.

You learned to trade your knowing for logic.

You learned to smile instead of speak.

You learned to keep your rituals private, your magic small.

Just because you've been trained doesn't mean you've been tamed.

You still see what others dismiss.

You still hear the hum beneath the noise.

You still carry the pulse of something older than reason.

And the pedestrian world grey and cold without magic?

It's unraveling.

It is not order that will save us.

It is not perfection.

It is not reason, or data, or another neatly categorized path to nowhere.

It is magic.

It is blood-deep knowing.

It is the sacred chaos of women who remember how to read the dark.

This world needs magical women,

women who do not flinch in the face of shadow,

women who speak to what is unseen,

women who can walk into the haunted places and stay there—

not to escape, but to reclaim.

You don't owe anyone an explanation for your knowing

or for your gifts

or for the rituals you keep like flame in your chest.

You don't need to be soft to be sacred.

You don't need to be pretty to be powerful.

Your magic is not a performance.

It is not an aesthetic.

It is not a phase.

This is about undoing the forgetting.

Your wild is still in there—

howling behind your teeth.

It is waiting at the edges of your dreams.

It is braiding itself into your breath.

You don't need to rise above anything.

You need to sink in.

Root down.

Call your soul back from every place it's been fragmented.

You are not soft light.

You are candlelit ceremony.

You are full moon in a dead forest.

You are thunder in velvet gloves.

You are not here to heal the world through obedience.

You are here to haunt it back into remembering.

You were always magic.