I’ve been thinking a lot about rest lately. Not collapse. Not zoning out. But real, intentional rest. The kind that lets your nervous system exhale and your spirit come back into your body.
Eron Vito Mazza
And let me be honest—it’s hard. As a queer, trans, neurodivergent witch, I’ve spent most of my life running on survival mode. The world has never made room for people like me to slow down. It expects us to keep going, to prove ourselves, to stay available, productive, and polished—even when we’re falling apart.
But here’s what I’ve learned: rest is sacred. Not optional. Not earned. Not a reward for finishing everything. Just sacred. Full stop. Rest isn’t a break from your magic—it’s where your magic can breathe.
In witchcraft, we talk about cycles—waxing and waning, rising and falling, growth and release. But sometimes we forget that we’re part of those rhythms too. The moon disappears for a reason. Winter exists for a reason. We are not supposed to be blooming all the damn time.
I’ve started doing a very potent ritual to manifest rest in my life. It consists of lighting incense, just to enjoy it, not to manifest anything, but just to rest. Just to permit myself to stop holding it all. I crack open a cold Pepsi and just relax. That’s it. That’s the ritual. Just living in the moment, trying to think as little as possible.
And in those quiet, still moments—yeah, that’s where the real stuff starts to happen. There’s a kind of healing that only arrives when you stop chasing it.
Rest is a form of resistance. Tricia Hersey of The Nap Ministry reminds us that rest disrupts systems like capitalism and white supremacy—systems that thrive when we’re too tired to fight back, too burned out to dream. So every time we rest, we’re saying: I deserve to exist beyond my labor. I am sacred even when I am still.
And yes, the guilt shows up. It always does. But I’ve started treating guilt like a ghost—it’s allowed to pass through, but it doesn’t get to haunt me. You don’t have to break down to deserve a break.
If you’re tired—emotionally, spiritually, existentially—you don’t need to wait for permission. You don’t need to wait until you’ve hit a wall. You can choose now. You can say, “Enough,” and let that be your spell. Sacrifice your burnout on the altar of self.
Rest is a reclamation. It’s sacred time. It’s where the soul comes home to itself. Let your rest be a ritual. Let your softness be holy. Let your quiet be enough. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is nothing at all.
