The Neurodivergent Witch

For as long as I can remember, I’ve walked a different path—both in life and in the forest. This is my story of finding belonging, connection, and magic in the quiet places where my neurodivergence and witchcraft intersect.

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Finding My Place in the World

As a child, I always felt like I was on the outside looking in—an alien pretending to be human, going through the motions and saying what I hoped were the right words. I was the one with dirt under my nails and twigs in my hair, who found comfort in the steady rhythms of nature rather than the confusing, unspoken rules of people.

The forest enchanted me, drawing me in with the chatter of squirrels chasing each other up and down the trees. Then there were the birds—always the birds—flitting from branch to branch, their songs filling the air with something that felt like hope. I’d try to save every fledgling I found on the ground beneath its nest, cradling their tiny bodies in my hands, willing them to survive. Sometimes they did, but sometimes they didn’t, and those days hurt the most. I’d cry as I buried them in matchboxes beneath the pines, giving them funerals like they were family because, in some ways, they were.

The forest was easy. Being a person was hard.

While others seemed to navigate the world effortlessly, I was always stumbling, feeling too much, forever the odd one. But in nature, I didn’t have to be anything other than myself. I could be the girl who wept for fallen birds and spoke softly to raccoons, who found solace in the whisper of leaves. I didn’t yet realize that my sensitivities and my deep connection to the natural world were my own kind of magic—a quiet witchcraft that was rooted in the everyday sacredness of life.

A Sanctuary in the Forest

There was this spot I’d go to after school, a place we called “Woodpecker Hill.” It wasn’t really a hill—just a little rise in the forest where a giant tree stood, full of holes from the woodpeckers that lived there. Sunlight would break through the branches in these beautiful, streaming rays, like something out of a fairy tale, and I’d just stand there, letting the light soak into my skin.

It felt magical, filled with a kind of quiet reverence that I couldn’t find anywhere else—a place where I was accepted just as I was, without judgment, without the weight of expectations. Out there, among the trees and the sunlight, I felt a peace that church never gave me, away from the eyes that looked at me with scrutiny and the voices that told me I didn’t belong.

Grandmother’s Garden

My grandmother lived just down the street, in a cozy house that always smelled of cinnamon and something sweet baking in the oven. She was neurodivergent too, though we didn’t have the words for it back then. We understood each other in ways that transcended labels. Her home was a true sanctuary for me, a place where I could let my guard down.

She always had a mug of hot chocolate waiting for me, the kind with too many marshmallows, and Enya playing softly in the background, the ethereal notes weaving a spell of comfort around us. We’d sit at her kitchen table, playing cards and talking about anything and everything. She might have been a Christian, but in her gentle, accepting way, she was my first coven—teaching me that magic isn’t about beliefs or titles, but about the love and understanding you give and receive.

But it was her garden that truly felt like magic. A wild, wonderful tangle of roses and wildflowers, with fairy statues peeking out from beneath the blooms like secret keepers of the space. I spent hours there, wandering through the paths, touching petals as if they held all the answers. That garden was a world all its own, a place that breathed and pulsed with life, where every flower seemed to reach out to me, saying, “You belong here.”

Belonging Through Community

As I’ve grown, I’ve learned that connection isn’t always where we expect it to be. Sometimes it’s in the kindness of a stranger, the shared silence of someone who just gets it, or the unwavering loyalty of a friend who stays when others drift away.

For me, connection has often come in the quiet spaces: the wind whispering through the trees or the steady presence of someone who sees the world the way I do. It’s in these moments that I’ve felt the most seen, the most understood—not because I was trying to belong, but because I was simply being.

These moments remind me that even when life feels isolating, we are all part of something bigger. Our paths are interwoven in ways we can’t always see, creating a web of shared experiences that hold us together.

A Message to My Younger Self

If I could go back in time, I’d tell that little girl who felt like she didn’t belong that she’s not alone—there are millions of others like her, scattered and searching, waiting to be found. I’d show her the magic in her bones, the quiet strength in her heart, and the boundless power she carries just by being herself.

I’d tell her that one day, she’ll find her people, her coven, not just in a traditional sense but in the hearts of friends all over the world. She’ll build a beautiful community that transcends miles, connected by the shared understanding of what it means to live with an open heart and a soul that feels the pull of the earth.

And most of all, I’d tell her this: no matter how different we may feel, no matter how disconnected the world makes us seem, we’re never truly alone.