The Myth of the Passion Witch

They say there is a place where the path splits —
not one direction, but many,
forward, backward, inward.

No signposts. No guarantees.
Just a crossroads lit by a single torch.

And at the center of that crossroads stands a witch.

Not the kind who barters power for ego,
nor the kind who demands devotion to feed herself.
This one has no throne, no altar, no crown.
Only a flame she tends and a knowing in her bones.

They call her the Passion Witch,
but not because she burns recklessly —
because she knows fire is medicine
when held with reverence.

Some arrive at her crossroads in shame,
leaving a trail of discarded skins in their wake.
Some arrive in exhaustion,
having tried in vain to shrink their wanting.
Some arrive not broken, but strangers
to their voice, their gifts, their fire.

She does not ask why they came.
She asks:

“Which part of you did you leave behind to survive?”

And the descent begins.

Not into darkness as punishment,
but into the quiet rooms of the self —
the ones where the mirrors were covered,

the ones where the old fears sleep like guard dogs
the ones where your younger self still listens for footsteps.

The ones where the treasure is buried.

She does not lead.
She does not pull.
She walks beside them, torch in hand,
illuminating just enough space
for truth to breathe.

In the underworld, they meet what was exiled:
desire hiding the powdered sugar on her cheeks,
anger hurtling itself against the walls,
creativity pacing like a caged panther,
grief pleading for release in a sealed glass jar.

The witch does not command these parts.
She greets them.

“You do not have to earn your way back,” she says.
“You only have to come home.”

And one by one, the lost return.

Not purified.
Not perfected.
Integrated.

The witch teaches them the oldest alchemy:
that what you touch with love does not disappear —
it transforms.

When the time is right — not early, not forced —
she turns, and the path home appears.
Not back to who they were,
but forward to a life that can hold who they’ve become.

She does not build their future for them.
She places the torch in their hands.

“Go back and build what you need,” she whispers.
“Your fire is an extraordinary beginning.”

Some turn their creativity into work.
Some turn their healing into craft.
Some turn their story into art.
Some turn their passion into a way of living.

All return with something real.

And the witch?

She stays at the crossroads.
Not waiting — holding the space.
For the next person who arrives
with a heart full of longing
and a soul that remembers
there is more.

Because this is her work:
not to rescue,
not to command,
not to shine in their place —

but to witness them claim the fire
that was always theirs.

I am the Witch of the Crossroads, the keeper of the torch.
I walk with the ones who are ready to descend,
love what they find, and return with fire in their hands.
My work is the alchemy of belonging —
not escape, but embodiment.
Not purity, but authenticity.
Not fantasy, but a life that can hold the soul.

What is your story?