The Part of the Spell No One Sees
About this piece
The Part of the Spell No One Sees is a ritual story about the kind of magic that doesn’t need an audience. The kind that happens when truth meets resistance, when a woman chooses alignment over acceptance. Sometimes there’s candlelight. Sometimes there’s fire in the breath. But the power doesn’t come from the tools—it comes from the clarity. It comes from the choice to speak, act, and move in full truth.
This is the kind of spell no one watches—but it changes everything.
This is the part they don’t celebrate—but it’s where I reclaim myself.
What follows is a record of one of those moments.
Today I advocated for myself in a space where I used to stay quiet—sometimes out of avoidance, sometimes out of acceptance. I would convince myself that I wasn’t worth the effort. But this time, a familiar test showed up—paperwork, details, energy I could’ve let slide. I didn’t. I chose to speak clearly instead. I didn’t dramatize it. I didn’t downplay it. I just told the truth. What follows is the ritual that unfolded as I did.
I feel it before I even touch the keyboard—this burn behind my chest, full of anger, full of truth. The kind that waits in the corners until I’m too full to hold it any longer.
Music’s already playing. I chose it instinctively—my spirit always knows what I need, even when I don’t. The original score from Sinner wraps around me like smoke and silk—low tones pulsing beneath the surface, strings rising like warning and prayer at the same time. It doesn’t just fill the room—it moves through me. I feel it in the space between my shoulder blades. I feel it in my sacral. In the slow wave of tension dissolving from my hips. The sound meets the places in my body that hold memory—unspoken requests, held breath, restraint that used to feel like protection.
I breathe deeper without realizing. My hands steady. My eyes sharpen. The music becomes breath. Breath becomes permission.
The flame is already burning beside me—a deep red candle, low and steady, pulsing like the root of me is waking up. The scent of Dragon’s Blood coils into the room, thick and ancient, like a language my body never forgot. At my feet, a single piece of Axinite holds the weight of this ritual—dark, grounded, humming with the memory of every boundary I’ve ever broken and rebuilt.
I don’t have to summon anything. They’re here. I feel them gathering, not to watch, but to work. They stand behind me with eyes like mirrors and hands that remember every time I stayed quiet. Their presence is weightless and undeniable. They’ve come for justice. They’ve come for clarity.
Let the unseen be named.
Let the energy move clean.
Let no word be misunderstood.
Let the truth travel faster than delay.
Let what is mine be honored.
Let what is not be cleared.
I’ve already done what needed to be done.
The rest will meet me in alignment.
I know what needs to be said. I’ve said versions of it before. But today, I say it differently.
Not softer. Not louder. Just clear.
I write every word with my body. My back straightens. My jaw sets. My fingers speak without hesitation. There’s no apology folded between my lines. There’s no sugar. There’s only presence.
I name what isn’t mine. I release it from my space.
I call out what’s missing. I name what is.
I ask—not for favors—but for alignment. For response. For respect.
I say: this is what’s real. This is what I see. This is what I need before I agree to anything else.
I don’t over-explain. I don’t defend my knowing. I don’t wrap my clarity in softness just to make it easier to receive.
I re-read it once. Not to second-guess. Just to honor the power in my precision.
Then I hit send.
And I swear, the Earth took it. Swallowed that message whole like she had been waiting for me to speak it for generations. A breeze moves through the room. The pressure behind my ribs eases just enough for me to exhale.
This is the work. This is the magic. This is the part of healing no one claps for—when I advocate for myself in the quiet moments, in the inbox, in the forms, in the everyday spaces where I used to shrink.
It brings up more than the moment. It always does. My throat remembers the times I didn’t speak. My body remembers the times I performed being okay while my insides were screaming. There’s grief, anger, and rage in the clarity, too.
Because when I say what I need, I’m not just asking for resolution—I’m undoing the lie that said I have to struggle for my needs to be seen. That I have to shrink to keep the peace. That I have to be thankful just for being allowed to stay.
And yes, money lives here too. Power. Worth. All the ways I’ve carried tension in my cervical spine and abdominal areas trying to figure out how to be respectful and real at the same time. To advocate without fear. To not contort my voice in the name of being understood.
So I chose truth.
I don’t need to shout to be heard. I don’t need to beg to be taken seriously.
I’m not performing. I’m not pleasing. I’m placing things back in order.
I moved in flow with my rage and let it tell the truth. I didn’t hold it back or turn it against myself. I let it move like water breaking a dam—disruptive, necessary, cleansing.
I remain inside the wave I chose to ride.
No closure. No collapse.
Just the knowing that I moved something real.
Thank you, Spirit. Aṣé.