It came to me like a wave, calm at first, then unmistakable.
I was sitting on a cliff above the sea in Maine, laptop in front of me, trying to map out the next phase of a workbook I thought I was there to write. But Spirit had other plans. That whisper that begins in the bones before it ever reaches the ears? It was speaking. Clearly. Firmly. Lovingly. It’s time to remember.
And then it came, this moment I hadn’t thought of in years.
I was maybe eleven. I’d just seen, for the first time, girls my age serving as altar girls at another parish. They weren’t just reading scripture or carrying gifts, they were right there beside the priest, supporting the sacred flow of the entire Mass. I was lit up. My heart beat faster at the thought of it. I felt called. Certain. Like something holy was opening for me.
So at our next Mass rehearsal, I gathered up all my courage and approached our priest. I was nervous, I didn’t speak to him much, but I was excited too. I told him I wanted to serve with him at the altar. I thought he’d be proud that I wanted to do more, to offer more. That I wanted to serve the Divine in a deeper way.
But he looked at me, flat and unflinching, and said, “No. It isn’t possible.”
When I asked why, he replied, “Not in my church.”
That’s when the feeling hit. First a jolt of disappointment so sharp I could hardly breathe. Then something darker. Disgust.
What did he mean, his church? I thought this was God’s house.
In that moment, something cracked in me. I didn’t have the words for it yet, but my spirit knew I had been shut out from the sacred. Not because I didn’t love God. Not because I lacked faith. But because I had been born a girl.
And so began the exile.
I didn’t leave God that day. But something in me left the church.
I kept going, of course. I attended religion classes, Catholic school made that a requirement. But I began asking questions. A lot of questions. The kind of questions that drove teachers crazy. I wanted to know why girls weren’t allowed to serve in the same way boys were and why it depended upon the church. I wanted to understand what made someone worthy of the altar, of sacred closeness. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I was trying to find the Divine again.
But the more I asked, the more I felt like I didn’t belong.
I stopped volunteering to carry the gifts. I stopped reading at Mass. I stopped singing. It all felt like pretending, and I couldn’t do it anymore. The joy I once felt in ritual had been replaced by resentment. And quietly, I pulled away.
I was still just a child. And during those years, my home life brought its own storms. There was trauma happening behind closed doors, things I couldn’t tell my friends, things I didn’t have language for. I needed comfort. I needed guidance. And I think the church could have offered that if it had made room for someone like me.
But I felt like the church had turned its back on me. And I didn’t know where else to go.
So I turned to books. I turned to art. And eventually, when I turned 15, I turned to work. I buried myself in whatever could fill the emptiness. I stayed away from spiritual spaces not because I didn’t believe, but because I wasn’t willing to be shut out again.
When I did attend Mass, at weddings, funerals, or with my parents, I was overwhelmed. I’d sit in the pew and feel waves of grief rise up that I didn’t understand at the time. Looking back, I think I was feeling the sorrow of that little girl who still wanted to be close to God. But I was also feeling something bigger, the collective heartbreak of every person who had ever been told, You don’t belong here. Not like that. Not like you.
And then something changed.
I was sixteen when I found my way back to Spirit.
Not through a church. Not through a program. Through a door with a bell above it and a shop that smelled like incense and old wood. My first metaphysical store.
The moment I stepped inside, something inside me exhaled. There were crystals and books, candles and herbs, and people who didn’t seem afraid to speak about magick or energy or the unseen. No one looked twice at me for being curious. No one said “not in my store.” Instead, there were shelves upon shelves of answers, and better yet, invitations.
I didn’t know everything that day. But I knew this: I was a witch. I believed in the elements, in the wisdom of the earth, in a kind of truth that rose up from within me instead of being handed down.
I believed that healing wasn’t something we begged for, it was something we participated in.
That we weren’t born broken or dirty or sinful.
That divinity didn’t live in marble halls or stained glass.
It lived in nature. In our bodies. In our choices.
It lived in me.
And from that day forward, I began building my own altar. Slowly, secretly, at first. I was still living at home, and I didn’t feel safe being open about it. But I collected things, books, stones, bits of ribbon, candles, tiny sacred tools. I hid them in drawers, tucked them under my bed, whispered my prayers into the night.
Over time, the altar grew. It moved into corners of my room. Onto shelves. Into the herbs in my kitchen and the oils in my bath. Into the way I lit candles when I was hurting and pulled cards when I needed guidance. Eventually, it became my entire home. My life.
Today, the altar I built is no longer just mine. It belongs to everyone who’s ever been told they were too much, too different, too magical to belong. Everyone who’s ever walked away from a church and wondered if they’d lost God, when really, they were just stepping toward themselves.
I know now that the moment I was denied the altar wasn’t a detour from my spiritual path. It was my spiritual path.
That denial planted a seed in me. Not one of bitterness, though I felt that at first, but of sacred defiance. Of divine remembrance. My soul knew something that day, even if I couldn’t name it yet:
You were never meant to serve at someone else’s altar.
You were meant to build your own.
That truth came full circle at a writing retreat not long ago. I had gone there thinking I would work on a workbook. But Spirit had other plans. In the quiet stillness of the ocean air, my guides spoke. They told me it was time. That The Sovereign Phoenix—the religious fellowship for witches in recovery I had been dreaming into form—was not just a good idea. It was inevitable. It had been set in motion long ago. Maybe even that day in the back of the church.
Now, I see it clearly. The altar I’ve built is not just candles and crystals. It’s not just rituals and tools.
It’s a home. For every witch in recovery who has been exiled. For every queer, neurodivergent, magical, or trauma-touched soul who was told they couldn’t serve the Divine in their fullness. For everyone who was turned away, not because they lacked faith, but because they carried a kind of power that made others uncomfortable.
My altar holds space for them. It holds space for you.
And if I could speak to that younger version of myself, standing in her good dress with her hands clasped in hope, asking to serve God, I would look her in the eyes and say:
Keep searching. The truth is out there.
You were never denied the Divine. You were just rerouted to your destiny.
Love and magick in recovery,
Sunshine
About Sunshine
Sunshine is a Psychic Medium, Soul Healer, Reiki Master, High Priestess, and the pink-haired trailblazer behind Illuminate: The Unschool of Sober Witchcraft. As a recovering alcoholic and spiritual mentor, she helps witches in recovery rediscover their magick and align with their highest purpose.
✨ Explore her transformative work at IlluminateUnschool.com
📱 Download the Sober Witch Life mobile app for free tools & weekly recovery circles available on both iOS and Android
🌙 Join the Free Weekly Recovery Circle for support and a community of sober witches
📖 Get her book Sober Witch Life: A Magickal Guide to Recovery
