When the Cauldron Runs Empty: Returning to Self-Care Through Nature, Rest, and Compassion

This week, I didn’t post much. I didn’t work on the projects I needed to. And for a while, I felt guilty about that.

 

But the truth is—I didn’t have the energy. Life brought up some deeply personal things that left me feeling emotionally raw, unmotivated, and spiritually empty. And when your work is about healing, soothing, and calming others… that kind of energy matters. I couldn’t bring myself to pour from a place of depletion, because the magick only flows when it’s rooted in truth.

So I stopped. I stepped back. I let myself feel what needed to be felt.

And then—I returned to my rituals. To the earth. To the little things that gently bring me back to center.

And maybe most importantly, I let others in.

I surrounded myself with people who genuinely wanted to be near me—not out of obligation, but out of love. People who didn’t need me to be on, or productive, or inspiring. Just me. And in their presence, I felt safe. Supported. Slowly refilled.

Healing doesn’t always happen alone. Sometimes, we heal in the quiet company of those who see our shadows and stay anyway.

If your cauldron’s been feeling empty too, maybe this is what you need.

1. Nature as Therapist: Let the Earth Hold You

I spent more time in the garden this week than anywhere else. Not because I had time to spare—but because I needed it. There was plenty to do: planting, weeding, watering, checking on the Thai chiles, the pole beans, the irises, the snap peas. And I did it all. But it wasn’t about productivity—it was about presence.

My indoor plants are a little neglected right now. They sit quietly, waiting for care I haven’t had the capacity to give. But the garden called louder, and I chose what would ground me. I chose wisely. There’s no shame in choosing what keeps you rooted.

Ritual Tip: Let yourself choose what your soul needs most, even if it’s not what’s most urgent. Whether it’s the garden, the forest, or a walk around the block—go where the air feels easier to breathe. Make your to-do list bend to your healing, not the other way around. Bring water, bare feet, and a soft heart. The dirt doesn’t care if you’re crying. The sun doesn’t ask you to smile.

2. Rituals of Rest: Sacred Stillness in a World That Pushes

 

 

 

Rest is something I’ve struggled with for most of my life.

 

As a lifelong caretaker, people-pleaser, and (let’s be honest) doormat at times, I was conditioned to put everyone else first. I thought rest had to be earned. That being tired wasn’t a good enough reason to stop. That if I slowed down, I was being lazy. Weak. Selfish.

But when I started having heart issues almost three years ago, all of that changed. I didn’t get a choice anymore. My body forced me to learn the art of rest. I had to stop pushing past my limits, because the cost wasn’t just burnout—it was hospitalization. It was my life.

Learning to rest became an act of survival. And over time, it became an act of devotion—to myself, to my healing, and to the people who love me enough to want me well.

This week, I returned to that lesson. I didn’t post. I didn’t keep up. I didn’t push. I soaked. I slowed down. I used the balms I crafted for others—Stress Solace, Tension Talisman—and let their magick work on me. Not to fix me, but to remind me: my worth is not in what I produce. It’s in the fact that I am.

Ritual Tip: Reclaim rest without guilt. You don’t need to earn your right to pause. Your body speaks in whispers before it screams—listen early. Make rest part of your daily ritual, not a last resort. Lie down with intention. Run a bath without multitasking. Inhale your favorite calming blend and say aloud, “I choose rest, because I choose to live.”

3. The Magick of Self-Compassion: Speak Kindly to Yourself

 

 

 

I’ve had to train my inner voice—and let me tell you, it didn’t come naturally.

 

We are our own harshest critics. For most of my life, I didn’t know my own power. I didn’t know my worth. I made myself small to survive. I spoke down about myself constantly—little jabs, self-deprecating jokes, minimizing my value. And what I told myself inwardly began to shape the way I moved through the world. I didn’t have a voice. I didn’t have boundaries. I went along with the wants and needs of others because I didn’t believe mine mattered.

But beginning this healing journey—through herbalism, spirituality, trauma work, and reclaiming my magick—required me to change that voice. It’s been some of the hardest work I’ve ever done. Because it meant confronting the part of me that whispered, “You’re worthless.” “You have nothing to offer.”

And it meant challenging those lies—daily. Replacing them with truth. With softness. With strength.

Now, when those thoughts creep in, I pause. I breathe. I respond.

“I am worthy of care.”

“I am powerful and needed.”

“I am creating something beautiful—and I am allowed to take up space doing it.”

Self-compassion isn’t just fluffy language. It’s reprogramming. Reclaiming. Remembering who you were before the world told you to shrink.

Ritual Tip: Speak to yourself the way you wish your younger self had been spoken to. Write those words down and tuck them into your altar, mirror, or pocket. Apply balm to your chest and whisper a blessing to your heart. Use your voice, even if it shakes—especially if it shakes. Let every word be a spell of becoming.

Closing: The Magick in the Mess

 

 

This week wasn’t neat, tidy, or particularly productive. But it was honest. It was sacred. It was healing.

 

And if you’re in that space too—where the work is heavy, the energy is low, and the inner voice is loud—I want you to know this:

There is still magick in you. Even here. Especially here.

The earth doesn’t rush its blooms. The moon doesn’t apologize for its shadows. And you? You don’t need to be fully lit to be fully worthy.

Let go of what’s outside your control. The chaos. The timelines. The expectations that were never yours to carry.

Bring your focus back to what is yours—how you speak to yourself. How you care for yourself. How you choose to show up, even in softness. That is where your power lives.

You are allowed to pause. To care for yourself. To be held.

Thank you for being here with me. For witnessing my truth. For continuing to walk this path of healing and becoming. May we always remember: self-care isn’t selfish. It’s survival. It’s sacred. It’s magick.

With love and dirt-streaked hands,

Carol