The Cancer Witch
- Jun 25
- 10 min read
You might not notice her right away.
She isn’t loud. She doesn’t announce herself. She’s the one who pauses in the hallway for a breath before walking in—hand resting on the doorframe, shoulders squaring gently, eyes scanning the room like a weather gauge. She doesn’t just see people. She senses them. The tension in the air, the things left unsaid, the tone beneath the words. It’s always been that way.
She’s the one who makes the tea before anyone asks. Who wraps a shawl around your shoulders while you’re still figuring out why you feel cold. She’s the one who brings comfort without asking for thanks, not because she doesn’t want to be acknowledged, but because she doesn’t need to be. She gives from a place inside that is quiet and steady now. That hasn’t always been the case.
There were years when she overextended—when she poured out more than she had, gave when she needed to rest, stayed when she needed to go. She used to think that being good meant being always available, always soft, always giving. And when she got tired, she thought that meant she was failing.
She isn’t that woman anymore.
She didn’t rise in a blaze. She didn’t reinvent herself overnight. It was slower than that—more like the mist lifting from a field in the early morning. Quiet. Intentional. Unavoidable. The Cancer Witch came back to herself piece by piece.
Now, she still holds space. But she holds herself too.
She walks into rooms with invisible circles drawn around her. Not to keep people out, but to remember where she ends and where others begin. She can sense someone else’s emotion without losing her own. She can step into their story and then step back out—like stepping over a line drawn in soft earth. She’s learned to leave what isn’t hers behind.
When the noise rises around her, she doesn’t shrink. She doesn’t push back. She simply moves into herself—into the part of her that knows her own rhythm, her own weight, her own truth.
She rests more now, and without guilt. She no longer explains why she’s tired. She no longer fills the silence to make others comfortable. She sits in the quiet and breathes until her shoulders drop. She’s learned that peace doesn’t come from keeping everything held together—it comes from letting some things go.
She has rituals. Not elaborate ones, but meaningful. A candle on the windowsill she lights before sunset. A worn cardigan that waits for her at the end of the day. A bowl of salt beside her bed. Not for protection from the unseen, but to remind herself to release what she no longer wants to carry into tomorrow.
She keeps certain objects close. A pressed flower from her mother’s garden, now framed and hanging by her desk. She looks at it when the grief sneaks in, and it helps her remember that beauty and pain can sit side by side. A smooth pebble from the beach, found on a walk during a month that nearly broke her. It lives in her coat pocket now, grounding her as her fingers close around it on hard days. These aren’t trinkets. They’re memory markers. They keep her anchored to the self she worked so hard to come back to.
She still shows up for the people she loves. Still makes soup. Still listens. Still checks in.
But she no longer sacrifices herself in the process. She no longer believes that care means depletion. And she doesn’t ask for recognition. Not because she doesn’t value what she gives, but because she now gives with intention, not expectation. She’s learned to tend herself first.
That’s what sets her apart—not how much she gives, but how consciously she chooses to give.
She’s not trying to save anyone.
She’s not trying to prove anything.
She’s just being present, with herself and others, in a way that feels right and real.
This is the work she does now. Emotional work. The kind that no one sees but everyone feels.
It’s the strength of showing up without overextending.
The beauty of boundaries without explanation.
The quiet power of knowing when to hold, and when to let go.
She may never call herself a witch.
But she listens to the moon.
She senses the weather of a room before it breaks.
She knows that crying in the bath can be as healing as any spell.
She knows when to put the kettle on and when to leave the house entirely.
She is not perfect. She is not polished.
But she is whole.
Not all the time. But enough.
And she is learning, every day, to be more at home in herself.
She is the Cancer Witch.
And whether you’ve met her before or just now—
she is you.
You Are Already Walking as the Cancer Witch
You may not realise it, but the Cancer Witch is already moving through you.
Not in ceremony or spotlight, but in quiet, instinctive moments—the way you feel deeply, the way you tend without being asked, the way your heart notices what others miss.
You don’t need to shout to be seen.
You don’t need to rush to lead the way.
You move through the world attuned to emotion, to subtle shifts, to the pull of your own inner tides.
You are the one who senses a storm before it breaks.
Who offers comfort before words are spoken.
Who holds space not because it’s easy, but because it’s what love asks.
You’ve known the ache of giving too much.
You’ve felt the weight of being the emotional anchor.
You’ve stood in rooms full of people and carried more than your share.
But you are learning.
To pause.
To check in.
To draw soft circles around your energy.
To know what is yours and what is not.
You have rituals already—
the candle you light at dinner,
the tea you brew when emotions rise,
the way you tuck the blankets just so.
These are not routines.
They are spells.
They are medicine.
You don’t have to become her.
You already are her.
And each time you choose presence over perfection,
gentleness over guilt,
intention over overextension—
you are walking as the Cancer Witch.
Lessons from the Cancer Witch Within
She teaches you to feel with discernment
Not every feeling must be followed, but every feeling holds a truth. She helps you pause and ask, Is this mine? She reminds you to honour what’s real, and let the rest pass through like weather.
She teaches you to care without depletion
Her love doesn’t come at her own expense. She shows you that tenderness and self-respect can coexist—that you can be present for others while still holding yourself.
She teaches you to create quiet boundaries
Not walls, but filters. Invisible circles that soften what enters and exits your emotional field. She senses what belongs and what doesn’t, and helps you remember the difference.
She teaches you to rest and return
Rest is not escape—it’s restoration. She retreats when needed, not in fear but in wisdom. And when she re-emerges, she’s grounded, clearer, and ready to re-enter the world on her own terms.
She teaches you to recognise your rituals
The candle at dusk. The tea before bed. The scarf wrapped tight on heavy days. These aren’t just habits—they’re spells. She helps you see that your quiet patterns are already sacred.
How to Work with Her Energy
The Cancer Witch is already alive in the small things. She doesn’t ask for perfection—just presence.
Here are some ways to honour her in your own rhythm:
1. A Quiet Check-In
Each morning or evening, pause and ask:
What am I feeling right now?
Is this mine to carry?
What would support me gently today?
Even thirty seconds of awareness can recalibrate your emotional compass.
2. Reclaiming Your Rituals
Look around your home. What are the small habits, objects, or spaces you already gravitate toward when you need comfort or clarity?
Maybe it’s:
The way you arrange your pillows each night
The scent you use when the house feels tense
The object you touch before leaving the house
The cup you always reach for when you need grounding
These aren’t meaningless habits. They are anchors. You’re already working with magic. Now you’re just seeing it for what it is.
3. An Object of Return
Choose one object—a stone, a ring, a pressed flower, a pendant—and let it become your “return point.”
When emotions run high or the day pulls you in too many directions, touch or hold that object. Let it bring you back to yourself.
4. A Salt + Light Reset
Once a week, take time to clear the energy around and within you.
Light a candle in your kitchen or bathroom
Sprinkle salt at the threshold or in a bowl near your bed
Let the candle burn while you cook, clean, or simply sit
As you move through your space, say to yourself:
“This is a place I tend to. This is a body I care for. This is a heart I honour.”
A Personal Reflection from Angela
When I first began writing this Sacred Study, I spent months searching for the right goddess or archetype to represent Cancer Season. I turned over dozens of ideas—powerful women from myth, history, folklore. And while many of them held beautiful qualities of emotion and protection, none of them felt quite right for this space. They all felt like someone else’s story.
Cancer Season, for me, is incredibly personal. It’s emotionally nuanced, and I knew it had to be something we could all relate to—not aspire to. So instead of drawing down a distant archetype, I looked inward and created one that was already here. Someone I—and maybe you—had been becoming for a very long time.
So much of the Cancer Witch comes from my own life.
I keep reminders of my mother and grandmother in my workspace to remind me to be gentle with myself. I pin a small bluebird to my bra when I need to be brave—a gift from my father on my wedding day. I carry a heart-shaped stone carved by my husband, tucked into my pocket when I go to family events he can’t attend. And every now and then, I’ll slip my hand into my pocket and hold that heart—the heart he gave me—and I feel his love and his care. I don’t feel alone, even in my loneliness at those events.
I always have salt sprinkled across the threshold of my home and studio. It’s not for others—it’s a reminder for me. A message that I don’t need to allow any energy into my home that isn’t invited. Because I’m the only one who is in control of my emotional space. That’s the truth.
At night, I nest into my pillows, carefully arranged like a cradle around my head—not by accident, but because I deserve comfort. I deserve peace. I deserve an unspoiled rest.
And every evening when I start to cook, I light the same candle—not out of habit, but to invoke a feeling of calm and a sense of intention. These aren’t meaningless routines. They are rituals—ways that I anchor myself, tend to myself, and make space to process and release the emotions that arise.
And I’ve had to learn all of this the hard way.
There were years when I was constantly overstimulated and under-supported. I was living with a long unsupported mental illness. Yes, I was on medication, but I had no emotional care. My illness was something I carried quietly—kept secret from friends, from family, from bosses. That was a heavy weight to hold. And it wasn’t until after my parents passed—when I had my first major breakdown without them alive to guide me—that I dropped everything and truly began to learn to care for myself first.
Before that, I wasn’t good at holding space. Not for others. Certainly not for myself.
What I was good at, was demanding attention. I wanted to be seen. Acknowledged. Thanked. I often gave to others out of love, yes—but also with the silent hope that it would be noticed. And when it wasn’t, I felt resentful. Hurt. Even ready to walk away.
That version of me doesn’t live here anymore.
The Cancer Witch came in slowly. Quietly. She changed me.
Now, I tend to others from a place that includes myself. I give with awareness, not obligation. I don’t need applause or thanks to feel valuable. I know how to retreat and recover. I know how to stay still without disappearing.
Living in the Blue Mountains—with its sometimes unsavoury weather and eclectic community—has shaped me too.
It’s made me more resilient. More clear. It’s taught me to find beauty in discomfort, and balance in the unknown.
The Cancer Witch has lived through storms. But instead of armour, she’s built something quiet and beautiful on the other side—something she tends to with care.
She notices things.
Her emotions are a living garden—and she is its steady guardian.
And knowing that she’s in me…
Knowing that I can come back to her again and again…
Gives me strength in both my work and my life.
Yes, I rest.
Yes, I step away.
In fact, schedule time to step away.
And then I return—clear, rhythmic, and unshaken.
I’m here for me.
I’m here for you.
And now, I know how to do both—with balance.
Altar Suggestions & a Simple Ritual:
Cancer is ruled by the Moon and connected to water, emotion, and the sacred art of tending.
To honour the Cancer Witch on your altar this season, you might include:
A small bowl of water or sea salt
A moonstone, pearl, or heart-shaped crystal
A candle you light each evening as you prepare your space
An object that represents home, safety, or someone you care for deeply
A pressed flower, a photo, or a sentimental item you already cherish
A Ritual: Water Release
In a shower or bath, invite in all emotions—joy, sorrow, weariness, hope.
Say aloud or in your heart:
“All of me is welcome here.”
As the water flows, imagine it washing through your heart, your mind, your body.
No need to name every feeling. Just feel what’s here.
When you are ready, pull the plug or turn off the tap.
Let the water carry away what you no longer need to hold.
Breathe.
You are clear.
You are held.
You are home.
Journaling Prompts
These prompts can be placed on your altar, tucked into your journal, or returned to each time you want to reconnect with the Cancer Witch.
What are the small emotional rituals you already keep—perhaps without even realising it? When you’re tired or overwhelmed, what do you reach for? A blanket? A warm drink? A soft light?
These quiet comforts are part of your inner witch’s wisdom. Name a few, and reflect on what they offer you.
What emotional weight or baggage are you still carrying that may not be yours—or no longer needs to be?
Is there a feeling, story, or responsibility that you’ve taken on from someone else?
How might you begin to put it down, or let it move through you gently?
How can you soothe and support yourself emotionally this week?
If someone you loved were feeling the way you do right now, how would you tend to them?
What would it look like to offer that same care to yourself?
Where do you sense your emotional ‘edge’?
The Cancer Witch draws invisible circles around her energy—not to keep people out, but to know where she ends and others begin.
In your own life, where do you notice yourself feeling drained or scattered? What might help you stay close to your own centre?
What strengthens you emotionally?
Think of a moment when you felt calm, clear, or anchored—even briefly.
What were you doing? Where were you? Was there a small object, a person, or a setting that supported you?
Let this memory remind you that you can come back to that steadiness again.
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