01/31/2026
Good morning, witches and keepers of the flame...
Imbolc is coming,
and I need to say this plainly:
Brigid is not a Pinterest goddess.
She is not soft-focus white robes
and gentle affirmations
and saintly sweetness made pastel-edible
for modern comfort.
That Brigid is a lie.
The real Brigid is ๐ณ๐ถ๐ฟ๐ฒ...
and not the decorative kind.
She is the forge fire.
The fire that burns hot enough
to shape iron
and blister skin
and leave marks that do not fade.
She is the midwife with bl00d on her hands,
catching life in the dark,
where screaming and survival
share the same breath.
She is the poet who knows
that words are spells,
and spells ๐ฑ๐ผ ๐๐ต๐ถ๐ป๐ด๐...
they cut, they bind, they transform.
Brigid does not ask permission.
She lights the flame
because the cold will k!ll you if she doesnโt.
And thatโs what Imbolc actually is.
Not spring... not yet.
Not blooming... not yet.
Not manifestation season... not yet.
Imbolc is the moment you strike a flame
because you ๐ต๐ฎ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ผ.
In the old days,
the winter stores were low.
And today,
the nights are still long.
The ground is still hard and unforgiving.
But the fire must be kept.
Heat is survival.
Without it, nothing else comes.
This is the fire you light when youโre tired.
When youโre not inspired.
When you donโt feel mystical or hopeful or ready.
This is the fire of discipline.
Of devotion.
Of showing up anyway.
So Brigid asks you this at Imbolc, witch:
Where in your life are you waiting to ๐ณ๐ฒ๐ฒ๐น ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐
instead of striking the flame?
What needs to be tended daily,
not adored occasionally?
What truth needs heat applied to it
until it can finally be shaped into something useful?
Light the fire.
Light it because you intend to survive.
And more than that...
you intend to make something real
from what survived the winter.
Brigid is watching the hearth.
She doesnโt care how pretty it is.
She cares whether the flame holds.
๐ฅ
With soot on my hands and iron in my bones,
Blessed Imbolc, witches.
~ Baba
(Image sourced from Pinterest)
