Evenings have always felt liminal to me—not fully part of the day, not yet night. In observing kvöldvaka, I’ve turned that threshold into a sacred space: a time to read, stitch, sit with my ancestors, and let magic seep in quietly, like candlelight on old stone

Calling every person who composted with eggshells or brewed mint for an upset stomach a witch reveals more about our own romanticisation of the past than it does about the reality of life before modern convenience. To honour our ancestors truly, we must let them speak for themselves—acknowledging their practices without rewriting their identities.

The people accused in the witch trials were not witches—but the stories told about them reveal something powerful. Beneath the fear and forced confessions lie fragments of folk belief, forgotten ritual, and cultural memory. If we study these histories with care and discernment, we don’t reclaim a bloodline—we reclaim an understanding of how folkloric magic once lived in the margins.

For a long time, I used the term 'Traditional Witchcraft' to describe my practice, but over time, I found it no longer fit. While my craft shares some structural elements with Traditional Witchcraft, its true foundation lies in historical magic—early grimoires, folklore, and the practices of cunning folk. My goal is to honor those who came before me, not through modern interpretations, but by reconstructing my craft from historical sources. That’s why I now call it 'Old-Style Witchcraft'—a term that better reflects my approach, rooted in authenticity and tradition without being bound to contemporary frameworks.

When I set out to reconstruct my family’s magical tradition, I quickly realised that English-language resources were scarce—and often unreliable. Translations carried biases, academic sources simplified complex traditions, and folklore lost its richness when stripped of its original linguistic and cultural context. Learning the languages of my practice wasn’t just about expanding my research; it became essential to preserving the integrity of my craft. By engaging with primary sources directly, I uncovered layers of meaning, symbolism, and nuance that would have otherwise been lost. In doing so, I not only deepened my connection to my ancestors and their magic but also ensured that my practice was built on authenticity rather than assumption.

Finding the right herbal substitute isn’t just about matching magical properties—it’s about understanding the deeper symbolism, historical context, and method of use. A true replacement must honor the spirit of the original herb, not just its function in a spell. By weaving together folklore, historical research, and lived experience, I strive to ensure that every plant I work with is not only meaningful but also rooted in both tradition and my personal craft.

Tools are not the foundation of my magic, but they are the allies that shape my practice. Each item I use—whether crafted by my hands, gifted by the land, or chosen with care—carries its own spirit and purpose. Over time, my toolkit has evolved, reflecting the changes in my path and the deepening of my craft. These tools are more than objects; they are extensions of my magic, woven into the daily rhythms of my practice and my relationship with the unseen.

For 25 years, I’ve walked the path of a practicing witch, shaping my craft through folklore, folk magic, and personal experience. While I appreciate the structure of Traditional Witchcraft, I hesitate to claim the label outright. Too often, it comes with assumptions—of strict adherence to specific traditions, of working with the Witch Father or the Witch’s Devil, of following a path that isn’t mine. My magic is rooted in history but ultimately personal, and I’ve learned that labels, while useful, should never define me more than my own practice does.

Inspired by a dream and shaped by necessity, my magic rings are more than just tools—they are portals, focal points, and protective boundaries in my craft. Inspired by the Witches' Compass of Traditional Magic, these iron and copper rings enhance my workings, allowing me to reach beyond the physical and into the unseen. Through trial, fire, and intuition, I forged a practice that balances tradition with personal revelation, crafting rings that are both practical and deeply magical.

Magic is not just about what we do—it’s also about what we do it with. A year ago, I began rewilding my witchcraft, shifting away from mass-produced supplies and returning to historically appropriate materials and crafting methods. This meant trading store-bought candles for hand-dipped beeswax, synthetic cords for hand-spun thread, and glass bowls for earthenware and wood. In doing so, I found a deeper connection to my magical ancestors, a richer engagement with my craft, and a renewed sense of authenticity in my spellwork.