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A local man was arrested recently. What he was accused of isn't really the point—at least, it shouldn't be. We’re supposed to live in a society where innocence is presumed until guilt is proven. But then the cruel, dehumanizing comments by people who think they are perfect.
I started Pagans Behind Bars with no funding, no major platform, and no expectations of praise. It was born from a simple yet radical idea: that even those who are incarcerated deserve compassion, community, and a connection to their spirituality. Especially those who walk the Pagan path—a path already misunderstood and marginalized by mainstream institutions. What does the project offer? On paper, not much: letters, resources, a listening ear. But in practice, it offers something that many people inside prisons haven’t felt in a long time—kindness, connection, and the validation of their humanity. I do not judge. That’s a decision I made a long time ago, and one I stand by. Not because I think everyone is innocent. Not because I’m naive about the darkness that can live in people. But because I understand that judging someone by the worst thing they’ve ever done erases the entirety of their story. It dehumanizes them. And in a world where the system is already stacked against so many, that kind of erasure is not justice—it’s cruelty disguised as moral superiority. Let’s talk about that system. The criminal justice system in this country is broken—partly because of the way it is built, but also because of the people who feed it with their judgments. You know the ones. The folks in the comments section under every arrest report: “Lock him up and throw away the key.” “What a piece of trash.” “I’ve got a wood chipper for sale—discreet delivery.” They speak like judge, jury, and executioner, as if they’ve never made a mistake, never hurt someone, never broken a law. As if their shit doesn’t stink. What they don’t see—or refuse to see—is how this judgment spills over long after the time has been served. Reentry into the world is a battleground. People trying to rebuild their lives after incarceration face doors slammed in their faces every day:
Pagans Behind Bars is my way of pushing back. A letter, a prayer, a kind word—these may seem small, but to someone sitting in a cold cell, they can mean the world. They can be a reminder that someone still sees them as a person. Someone still believes in their capacity to change, to grow, to heal. I don’t pretend that spirituality will solve everything. But I know it can be a lifeline. And for many, it already has been. If you’re reading this and thinking, “But what about the victims?”—don’t worry. I think about them, too. I hold space for their pain and healing. But I also hold space for the truth that two things can be real at once: harm was done and the one who caused it is still human. I created Pagans Behind Bars because our community needs to show up in all the places society forgets. If we truly believe in redemption, in personal transformation, in the power of magick and the gods—we cannot turn our backs on those who need it most. Not everyone is called to this work. But everyone is called to compassion.
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I have a confession to make.
I’m guilty—guilty of doing the very thing I constantly urge my clients, friends, and loved ones never to do. I’ve been holding on to the past. Clinging to it. Living in it. For the last ten years, I have quietly carried the weight of a life I left behind. Since I moved away from Boston, I have been trying—perhaps too hard—to recreate what I once had. I searched for it in Flagstaff. I reached for it in Tucson. I tried to summon it again in Florida. And here in Richmond, I finally stopped trying to recreate my former life. But it wasn’t in triumph that I stopped—it was in surrender. And with that surrender came sadness. I missed the life I had in Boston. I still do. I missed the woman I was—the one who was constantly moving, teaching belly dance classes, performing, producing shows, hosting events, always chasing the next inspiration. I missed the rhythm and the chaos of it, the flow and fire of being fully immersed in a community and a passion. It wasn’t until after one of my recent classes with University Magickus (Magick U) that something shifted. I had a quiet, profound realization: I have transformed. My past is no longer a place to dwell. My old life is no longer the only way to define me. I am still me—but I am not her anymore. I’m no longer the woman darting from venue to venue, performance to performance. I’m no longer curating events every weekend or working tirelessly to maintain the momentum of a public, high-energy life. Instead, my work has taken on new depth and new intention. I am now fully immersed in my craft—teaching workshops and classes on the subjects I love most, the ones that have always pulsed quietly beneath the surface of everything I’ve ever done. I am nurturing my shop, Snake and Bone, with the same love and magick I used to pour into choreography and shows. I am creating art, channeling spirit into bone and wire and ash, weaving spells with my hands. I’m writing—pages, books, truths—and giving voice to stories that have long waited to be told. For a while, I stopped dancing. Partly because of limited space, partly because Richmond hasn’t offered the same kind of performance opportunities I was used to. But it wasn’t just the lack of venues. Something deeper was happening. And then, when we moved into a larger space, I began to dance again—not for an audience, not to prepare for a show or to impress anyone. I danced for me. I moved my body because I needed to—not to be seen, but to feel. To reconnect with the sacred rhythm of my body. To release tension. To pray with motion. To come home to myself. And in that moment, I realized: Dance was never just about performing. It was about embodiment. Connection. Release. It was always a sacred act. Like the serpent I so deeply honor, I have shed my skin. The old version of me, vibrant and full of movement, was not lost—she was a phase in my becoming. And now, here I am. Still me—but changed. Evolved. Transformed. The past may have shaped me, but it does not own me. I am no longer trying to recreate what was. I am building something entirely new. |
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