When Plans Fall Apart Because Your Body Says No

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#AfroLatineCharacters #ancestralMagic #brujaStory #comingOfAge #culturalIdentity #DominicanAmericanStory #HaveACupOfJohanny #identityAndSelfDiscovery #intergenerationalTrauma #latineFiction #magicalRealism #OwnVoices #SupernaturalFiction #TheOrdinaryBruja #womenInHorror

Dominican Bruja Representation in Fiction Explained

Let’s get one thing straight: The Ordinary Bruja isn’t just a story about magic.
It’s about Dominican magic.

And yes—there’s a difference.

Not the kind of magic that shows up in viral TikTok spells or aesthetic alter setups (though no shade if that’s your jam). I’m talking about the kind that’s handed down in whispers, in superstition, in the way your tías clutch their chest and say “ay, eso no era normal.”

That’s the magic I grew up seeing. That’s the magic I gave to Marisol.

Because The Ordinary Bruja isn’t a fantasy story with a sprinkle of culture. It’s a cultural story where the magic rises from the land, the language, and the legacy we carry in our bones.

Where This Magic Comes From

I didn’t invent the kind of magic in this book. I recognized it.

I saw it in my paternal grandmother—how she’d talk to plants, to photos, to things she wouldn’t name out loud. I saw it in how the women in my family used their intuition like a compass, even when they didn’t call it that. I saw it in how silence was used to protect, how herbs were used to heal, how dreams were used to warn.

That kind of brujería isn’t loud or performative. It’s integrated. It’s not “set aside” to be practiced—it’s lived. And when you’re Dominican, you know: everything has meaning. Every ache, every dream, every visitor at your door.

We don’t always call it magic. But it is.

Why It Was Important for Marisol to Be Dominican

Marisol’s brujería had to be Dominican because her fear, her guilt, her longing for identity—all of it is tangled up in the cultural weight she carries.

She’s not just scared of magic. She’s scared of what it means to claim it:

• Will it make her more other than she already feels?
• Will it mean accepting a family legacy she never asked for?
• Will it confirm everything she was taught to hide?

Dominican culture is full of reverence and repression. Faith and fear. And for Marisol, navigating that duality is part of the journey. She’s not just learning spells—she’s unlearning shame.

Preorder The Ordinary Bruja

The Ordinary Bruja: Book One of Las Cerradoras Series – Johanny Ortega

When grief pulls Marisol Espinal back to Willowshade, she uncovers a legacy buried in shadows, silence, and ancestral magic. The Ordinary Bruja is a haunting coming-of-age story that blends psychological horror with Dominican folklore and magical realism. For fans of Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Isabel Cañas.

If you love what you read, I’d be honored to hear your thoughts. Please leave a review on your preferred platform and let other readers find the magic in The Ordinary Bruja.

Real Brujería Isn’t Always Pretty

The magic in The Ordinary Bruja isn’t about incantations or potions. It’s about relationship.

Marisol talks to altars. To wind. To soil. To her dead grandmother.
She doesn’t know that’s what she’s doing at first. But she feels it. And that’s what ancestral magic is—feeling something you weren’t taught to explain.

One of my beta readers told me, “I’ve never seen this kind of magic in a book before.”
And I laughed, because same. That’s why I had to write it.

This isn’t Hollywood magic. It’s Dominican quiet <– I know an oxymoron 🙂
It’s shaking off a bad dream and throwing water out the window just in case.
It’s wearing red thread around your wrist because your abuela said so.
It’s songs that sound like lullabies but are actually coded warnings.
It’s silence that holds more power than any spoken spell.

Brujería as Inheritance

In the book, Marisol doesn’t just stumble upon power. She’s called by it.
She inherits it.
She resists it.
And slowly, painfully, she remembers it.

This mirrors how many of us come into our own spirituality—especially if we’re first-gen, diaspora-born, or disconnected from homeland roots.

We feel the pull but don’t have the language.
We dream the dreams but don’t trust them.
We sense the energy but second-guess it.

Marisol does all of that. And through her, I got to write about what it means to be Dominican and magical without needing permission.
Without needing to prove anything.
Without needing to look like anyone else’s idea of what a bruja should be.

For Every Dominican Who Feels the Pull

If you’ve ever been told “eso no se dice”…
If you’ve ever lit a candle and didn’t know why…
If you’ve ever felt like your body knew something before your mind did…

This book is for you.

It’s for every Dominican girl who didn’t grow up seeing herself in fantasy books.
For every bruja who learned her power in pieces.
For every child of silence who found her way back to truth through whispers and wind.

Because yes, Marisol is a bruja.

But she’s a Dominican one.
And that means everything.

Ancestral Magic vs TikTok Witchcraft Explained

I’ll be the first to say it—TikTok has made witchcraft look magical. (Pun fully intended.)

The aesthetics? Stunning.
The sound baths? Soothing.
The tarot pulls with soft lighting and perfect nails? Chef’s kiss.

But I’ll also be the first to tell you: what’s going viral on WitchTok isn’t always aligned with ancestral practice. And lately, that contrast has been itching at me.

So here’s my take—not a takedown, not a lecture, just a real moment of reflection from someone who honors the path, respects the roots, and understands the difference between performing magic and living it.

What TikTok Witchcraft Gets Right (and Wrong)

Let’s start with the good: TikTok has opened the door for so many people to find spiritual practices that resonate with them. I love that someone can stumble across a bruja lighting a candle or cleansing her space and feel something stir in their spirit. That’s powerful. That’s beautiful.

But here’s the problem: when witchcraft gets reduced to “three signs he’s cheating” tarot spreads or “manifest $10,000 overnight” bay leaf rituals—it starts to feel less like reverence and more like clickbait.

And that makes me nervous. Because for people like me, this isn’t a trend.

This is ancestral.

This is bloodline-deep.
This is altars with photos of the dead.
This is prayers that don’t always rhyme.
This is calling your abuela in your dreams and asking her what to do.

And that’s a different kind of magic.

This Magic Isn’t in Most Books

One of my beta readers recently said something that made me laugh. She said, “I’ve never seen this kind of magic in a book before.”

The Ordinary Bruja: Book One of Las Cerradoras Series – J.E. Ortega

When grief pulls Marisol Espinal back to Willowshade, she uncovers a legacy buried in shadows, silence, and ancestral magic. The Ordinary Bruja is a haunting coming-of-age story that blends psychological horror with Dominican folklore and magical realism. For fans of Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Isabel Cañas.

If you love what you read, I’d be honored to hear your thoughts. Please leave a review on your preferred platform and let other readers find the magic in The Ordinary Bruja.

And I laughed—not in a dismissive way, but in that ay, verdad kind of way. Because of course she hadn’t. The magic I write isn’t based on fantasy tropes or Hollywood rituals. I mine my lived experience.

I write what I watched growing up—especially from my paternal grandmother when I’d go visit. Her version of magic wasn’t the kind you see on social media. It wasn’t about the tools, the spectacle, or being polished for the camera. It was just… life.

Everyday magic. Quiet magic.

Sure, sometimes there were bold movements and chants. But most of the time, it was soft and subtle. It was her talking to the pictures on the altar. Talking to the flowers. Talking to the path on the way to work. That deep understanding that everything—everything—is alive and carries the same energy we do.

That’s the kind of magic I carry. And that’s what I write.

Ancestral Practice Is Not Always Pretty

Let’s be honest: ancestral practice isn’t always aesthetic.

It’s messy.
It’s emotional.
It’s deeply personal.

Sometimes it’s lighting a candle while crying your eyes out. Sometimes it’s placing food on an altar with shaking hands and hoping your ancestors hear you. Sometimes it’s whispering to the air around you and feeling a presence that makes no logical sense—but you know it’s real.

This isn’t something that photographs well. But it’s real.

And it matters.

Because ancestral practice is not about what it looks like. It’s about relationship.
You don’t do it to impress. You do it to connect. To remember. To root.

Cultural Appropriation Is Still a Problem

Let’s address it: not every practice is for everyone.

TikTok has made it way too easy for sacred rituals to be picked up, stripped of context, and used like props.

White sage bundled and burned without reverence.
Spiritual baths repackaged as “energy resets.”
Palo Santo lit by folks who don’t even know what it is, let alone where it comes from.

And the response is often, “But I’m spiritual! I’m not hurting anyone!”

Intent doesn’t erase harm. If you’re using spiritual tools from Indigenous or Afro-Caribbean traditions without understanding—or worse, without permission—you’re participating in erasure, not elevation.

It’s almost like the white creator who posted a video claiming to have invented a “summer spa water” recipe. In the video, she used basic ingredients like cucumber, lime, and watermelon blended with water—essentially describing agua fresca, a traditional Mexican drink that has existed for generations.

What caused backlash wasn’t the drink itself (because honestly, agua fresca is delicious)—it was her framing. She claimed to have created the recipe and never once acknowledged its cultural roots. Viewers, especially from the Mexican and Latine communities, called her out for cultural erasure—taking something that has deep cultural significance, stripping it of context, and rebranding it for mainstream (often white) consumption.

This isn’t gatekeeping. This is safeguarding.

How I Hold Both Worlds

Now don’t get me wrong—I still appreciate what TikTok has done to make witchcraft more accessible. I love when someone posts an affirmation that reminds me to breathe. I’ve even found a few creators whose practices align deeply with respect and cultural integrity.

But I hold that world separate from my ancestral practice.

Because I know the difference.

When I sit with my ancestors, there’s no ring light.
No script. No trending audio.
Just me, the photos, the memories, the plants, the whispers.

Sometimes it’s a small moment. A feeling. A knowing.

Sometimes it’s my body walking the same path every day and saying, “thank you”—to the soil, to the air, to the breath in my lungs. Because this world is alive. It remembers us, just as we remember our people.

Final Thoughts (With Love)

If TikTok led you to witchcraft, welcome. Truly. Let this post be an invitation to go deeper. Ask where your practices come from. Ask what they mean. Learn the line between appreciation and appropriation.

And if you’re like me—watching WitchTok from the sidelines with one raised eyebrow—you’re not alone.

Ancestral magic isn’t trendy. It doesn’t need to be. It exists in the quiet corners of our days. In the whispers between heartbeats. In the stories we carry and the healing we choose.

It’s not always pretty. But it’s always sacred.

And sacred doesn’t need a platform to matter.

From Pandemic Isolation to Magic: Creating The Ordinary Bruja

Magic doesn’t always arrive with a flash and fanfare. Sometimes it emerges quietly from our darkest moments, when we’re hiding from the world and even from ourselves.

During the silence of pandemic lockdown, when the world outside my window fell eerily still, I found myself drawn to create something that could bridge the isolation. That’s when Marisol—a curvilicious Latina bruja reluctant to leave her cottage after quarantine—first whispered her story to me. What began as simple Instagram story posts soon became something deeper, a mirror reflecting my own fears about reconnection and being truly seen.

Through writing Marisol’s journey, I discovered parts of myself I had been avoiding: feelings of inadequacy, of not being Dominican enough, brave enough, or simply good enough. The magic I wove into her story wasn’t about wands or spells, but something ancestral and gut-deep, magic that pulses through her blood whether she wants it or not. Much like creativity pulsed through me during those difficult days, demanding expression even when I felt most ordinary.

The Ordinary Bruja emerged not from careful plotting but from raw emotion, from a tired woman sitting at her kitchen table whispering stories into the digital void, hoping someone might hear and respond. And respond they did—readers connected with Marisol’s reluctance to emerge from her pandemic cocoon, her fear of being seen for who she truly is. Because aren’t we all, in some way, hiding parts of ourselves from the world?

What version of yourself did you meet during isolation? What magic might you be hiding? Join me next Wednesday for “The Post That Broke Me” as I continue unpacking how this soft story took a hard turn after one Instagram comment about Dominican identity that awakened the bruja’s anger. Your own magic is waiting—sometimes we just need someone else’s story to help us find it.

#ancestralMagic #brujaStories #DominicanIdentity #identityAndIsolation #LatineAuthors #magicalRealism #pandemicCreativity #selfDiscovery #TheOrdinaryBruja #writingDuringLockdown