There are people who change you quietly, piece by piece, and then there are the ones who grab your soul by the shoulders and remind you that you’re still in there. You are those women for me.
I’ve lost touch with so many people over the years—some on purpose, some by accident—but recently I reconnected with someone who has always held a sacred place in my heart. The thought of her missing from my life felt like reopening the wound left by my mother’s passing. She’s the spice in the comfort of a pumpkin-spice latte—warm, grounding, and just a little wild. Her voice could melt tension right out of your shoulders, and she carries that rare northern grace: firm, kind, and impossible to forget.
She reminds me of the St. Lawrence River in summer—the kind of emerald green that hides both calm and current. Beautiful, steady, but deeper than most realize. She splits her seasons between her northern home and one far to the south, chasing warmth but never straying far from the water that raised her.
We’d fallen out of touch, not because the love faded, but because sometimes life drags us into corners even the gentlest souls can’t reach. On my sink sits a delicate teacup she once gave me, edged in gold and painted with forget-me-nots—the same flowers my mother planted in her garden. I drop my rings in it morning and night while I wash my face or bathe Evelyn. That little cup holds my most precious things while I care for the most precious people. I never realized how much she reminded me of my mother—the warmth, the red hair, the witchy light that feels like home. But she isn’t my mother, and that’s the beautiful part. Losing her would break me differently, but just as deeply.
On Sunday I finally messaged her. I still had her voicemail from 2021 and couldn’t believe it had been that long. It felt like sending a message into the void, like texting my mother’s old number just to feel close again. When her name appeared on my phone, my heart nearly stopped. My hands shook as I called back, and when she answered, “Hello, Bridgette?” I burst into tears. For a second it was like my mother was calling me from the other side. All I could manage was, “Oh my goodness, I’ve missed you so much.” We both cried and laughed through it, two people finding each other again after years apart. I sat in the Target parking lot for forty-five minutes talking to her, my chest burning in the best way.
Grief is alive. It waits quietly like a feral cat and curls up in your lap when you least expect it.
During our talk she mentioned the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. She said I’m the Mother now and she’s entering her Crone era. I told her she’ll always be frozen in 2005 in my mind, but she’s right. I’m deep in the nurturing stage—feeding, protecting, creating—while she stands in wisdom, freedom, and clarity. Both of us doing it without our mothers.
That conversation made me realize I’ve built my own circle of women who each carry part of that cycle. Evelyn, my Maiden, with her snow-day giggles and honest heart, is the living spark of my mother’s joy. Marisa, my fellow Mother, constantly reminds me that we are the true north for our children, especially in my lowest mothering moments. She wraps her family and mine in quilts, patience, and steady love. And my wise women—Kathryn, Roxy, and Inge—my beautiful not-crones (because I refuse to call you that). You are the ones whose hugs give everything and take nothing, whose eyes say “I see you” without a word.
I was raised Catholic, but something deep in me has always known the pull of a coven. The grounding of earth, the release of fire, the breath of winter air that wakes your lungs, the music that shakes you until you finally let go—that is divinity to me.
She told me she’s coming back into life again, and I could feel it because I am too. The fog is lifting. Music speaks to me again. I lose track of my phone because I’m too busy living. Evelyn’s laughter fills the room like sunlight. My animals look at me not out of need but out of love. I see the love that’s always surrounded me, and I’m finally letting go of the love that never looked back.
So this letter is for you—the women who have lifted me, molded me, and loved me through every version of myself. My coven. My circle. My village. You have watched me process life in all its forms: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the stunning. You have hugged me through every one of them. You have healed me, whether you knew it or not, stitching me back together one conversation, one laugh, one tear at a time.
When you have the right women, we heal each other. It’s not a slight against men or what they bring; it’s simply different. It’s the release, the scream into the void that doesn’t vanish but comes back as an echo when your sisters scream too. It’s that wild, holy sound that says, “I hear you. I’ve been there. You’re not alone.”
And this coven of mine keeps growing. Sadia, Meg, Amanda, and Kayla—you’ve each found your way into this sacred circle in your own time. We can go years without talking or seeing each other, yet there’s always space in my heart with your names carved in it. You are part of the thread that holds me together too.
That’s what I imagine it to be. That’s what I know it is.
With every ounce of my heart,
Bridgette🕯️
🌿 Author’s Note 🌿
If this found its way to you, maybe you’re part of the coven too. ✨
To the women who lift, laugh, cry, and show up in the quiet ways — thank you. You’re proof that healing doesn’t always happen in solitude. Sometimes it happens over coffee, in a text that arrives right when it’s needed, or in a laugh that shakes the dust off your soul.
If this letter made you think of your people — share it with them. Light a candle, send a message, remind someone that their magic matters.
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