Thirty years.
Thirty years of learning—of peeling back layers of muscle to reach the bone. Of laying
my hands on thousands of bodies. Of remembering who I am.
Thirty years of trial and error—pushing too hard, bringing my own unfinished pieces
into the room, filling the space instead of listening. Over performing from fatigue,
slipping into autopilot, missing what the tissues were quietly asking for. At the end of
those days, I’d come home to my young children depleted, not fully present with them
—or with myself.
Thirty years of living with my own Witch Wound—the part of me that stayed at the edge
of the village, wary of being seen. Afraid of persecution, humiliation, exile. Afraid
because I knew things others could not see or hear. Because my energy didn’t quite
match. Because belonging always felt conditional.
There simply weren’t as many of us then as there are now—the Light Bearers, the
Healers, the Seers. So I cloaked myself. I kept this part quiet. Only in session would I
gently ask a client what they were feeling in a particular place, or inquire about an issue
I kept hearing—again and again—through their body, through their spirit.
As clients affirmed those inquiries, my confidence grew. An opening would appear, and
together we would enter places they had long forgotten to tend. Something beautiful
and profound would shift. Real integration would happen.
Thirty years of playing hide and seek with my intuition, while slowly learning to trust
that I was being guided by something Divine, mysterious, and very REAL.
Thirty years of learning to trust. Of leaning in.
Thirty years of learning to trust—of a quiet tug of war within myself to own my true gifts
and my truest essence. Thirty years of emerging and retreating. Thirty years of waiting
for science to validate what my hands and my heart had already been hearing and
feeling.
Thirty years of learning to trust by listening—to yield, to draw my energy back behind
my own skin so I could become curious enough to hear what was being shown to me.
Waiting for the invitation from deep within that let me know I could begin. Learning to
hear the directions. Learning to read the map of the body and the energy field.
Thirty years of learning to trust how to gently inquire—into tissue, organ, vessel, and
fascia. Learning to feel the signals of the nervous system and allow them to set my
compass toward alignment, so the deeper work has space to land.
Thirty years of unraveling old stories—old lifetimes, old cultures, old conditioning.
Thirty years of understanding trauma and how it reshaped my brain. Thirty years of
devotion and commitment. Of learning my own flight patterns, and how to land my
nervous system on the runway without crashing myself—or another. Thirty years before
I could choose myself and stop apologizing for it.
Thirty years.
I am 66 soon to be 67. Still fiery—less bonfire now, more campfire. More
comfortable in my skin. More accepting of who I am, even as the aging humbles me
some days.
I still carry a Witch Wound. It no longer oozes. The scar is faint, supple now. And I
recognize the lineage that came before me—the inheritance of these scars. The Druid
wound. The Celtic soul. The deviant, defiant activist of another life. The justice seeker.
The medicine woman. The flapper. The pioneer woman who lost so many children. The
modern-day catalyst who brings the “stoke” to others’ fire.
In today’s world, the Witch Wound rarely calls itself by name.
It arrives disguised as Imposter Syndrome.
It appears when you are doing something that matters. When you are visible. When you are growing into the edges of your own capacity.
The voices whisper: I’ve never done this before. I don’t belong here. I can’t do this.
The body doesn’t know this is growth.
The nervous system only recognizes the ancient signal: Step back. Be careful. Don’t be seen.
Same signal. Same fear. Different century.
What we call imposter syndrome may simply be the Witch Wound remembering—
a lineage of silencing, exile, and punishment for knowing, for leading, for being too
much or truth telling.
And still—we are here.
Maybe this isn’t a sign that something is wrong.
Maybe it’s evidence that something is opening.
That you are standing at the threshold where visibility meets belonging.
The scars we carry were never meant to mark us as broken.
They are proof of survival, and our capacity to continue.
Of wisdom carried forward.
Of a body that learned how to endure.
I’ve learned to trust and love my Witch Wound.
I am practicing, in public now, a more
coherent and present witchy version of myself.
I can enter a room and feel my feet on the ground.
I can breathe, because there is enough of me to be safe.
I can look up and see how many of us have been standing here all along.
-Terri
In deep gratitude to this Artwork: Palimpsest by Susan Boulet
