The Day I Knew I Had to Write The Ordinary Bruja

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#AfroCaribbeanHeritage #colonialLegacy #culturalReflection #DominicanIdentity #identityReckoning #latineStories #magicalRealism #SelfAcceptance #TheOrdinaryBruja

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.

Disassociation is Complicity: Breaking the Cycle of Ignorance

The smoke is already in your lungs, even if your house isn’t on fire yet. This powerful metaphor frames our deep dive into disassociation—that subtle, pervasive mindset that whispers “if it’s not happening to me, I don’t care.” While our brains naturally create psychological distance from suffering as a protective mechanism, this episode challenges us to recognize how this distancing doesn’t actually make us safer—it makes us complicit.

Through personal storytelling and psychological insights, we explore how this mindset manifests particularly strongly around immigration issues. When we say things like “they knew what they were doing” or “we came here the right way,” we’re performing a type of patriotism rooted more in trauma than truth. Drawing from my own experience of being separated from my parents for years due to immigration bureaucracy, I share what it feels like to be on the receiving end of society’s disassociation—the child who becomes no one’s problem, caught in paperwork limbo for nearly a decade.

This episode isn’t about guilt—it’s about connection. Like California wildfires that spread from house to house, ignoring others’ suffering doesn’t keep us safe when systems of harm eventually reach our own doorstep. We examine how protests function to bridge artificial gaps between us, disrupting the illusion of separation and reminding us of our shared humanity. When we catch ourselves thinking “that’s not my business,” I invite you to pause and question what fears drive that response. It’s time to exercise our empathy muscle rather than letting it atrophy, to close the psychological gap before it becomes a moral one. Because ultimately, silence isn’t safety, and distance isn’t immunity—they’re just comfortable illusions that keep us from building the world we all deserve.

#collectiveEmpathy #disassociationAndComplicity #HaveACupOfJohannyPodcast #ICEPolicyCritique #immigrantFamilySeparation #immigrationJustice #latineStories #psychologicalDistancing #traumaInformedActivism

The Post That Broke Me

A thoughtless comment about Dominican identity became the catalyst for an unexpected journey into memory, heritage, and the stories we choose to forget. What began as a simple observation about how Dominicans often embrace their Spanish roots while minimizing African and Taíno influences sparked a firestorm of criticism that changed everything about my writing and my understanding of cultural identity.

The backlash was intense—being called a traitor, uneducated, and a “pick me” for daring to suggest we might need to reclaim parts of our heritage. But one comment struck deeper than the rest: “Dominicans don’t need to reclaim anything. We already know who we are.” This assertion, contradicted by the same voices that elevate Spanish heritage while remaining silent about other influences, revealed a profound disconnection that I couldn’t ignore. It forced me to ask: What happens when we forget who we are? What becomes of someone taught not to explore their lineage? And what occurs when that person begins to remember?

These questions transformed “The Ordinary Bruja” from a lighthearted comfort story into something more profound. Marisol’s journey became a reflection of generational amnesia—the way communities cling to what’s acceptable while abandoning what makes them whole. Hollowthorn Hill evolved from a simple setting to a place of ancestral memory, calling to Marisol even as she runs from it. Her magic stopped being merely aesthetic and became necessary, ancestral, and complicated. The story now explores returning to yourself even when everything around you says it’s better to forget. Join me next week as we delve into the mothers—those complicated, often inadequate, always human women who shaped this story and our understanding of identity. Have you ever had to unlearn something about your own heritage? I’d love to hear your story as we remember together.

#ancestralStorytelling #culturalErasure #DominicanIdentity #latineStories #magicalRealism #SelfAcceptance #socialCommentary #TheOrdinaryBruja #traumaAndCreativity #writingTruthfully

Who Is Marisol Espinal? A Character Study in Not-Belonging

You won’t notice her at first. She blends in—on purpose. She’s the quiet one in the corner, hoodie up, shoulders tense, eyes always scanning. Not because she’s timid, but because she’s learned that watching is safer than being seen.

Marisol Espinal is not your typical heroine. She’s not trying to save the world. She’s just trying to survive herself.

There’s a kind of restlessness that simmers in her. The kind you get when the world keeps telling you who you’re not. Not Dominican enough. Not American enough. Not spiritual enough. Not normal enough. So she stays in the margins, trying not to be a problem, trying not to be noticed—until not being noticed starts to feel like disappearing.

But Marisol isn’t disappearing. She’s gathering. Gathering pieces of herself she was taught to be ashamed of. Gathering the questions that never had safe places to land. Gathering memories she thought were too painful or too strange to matter.

She doesn’t want to believe in magic. But it believes in her.

She doesn’t want to revisit the past. But it keeps calling her name.

What drives her isn’t courage in the traditional sense. It’s a quiet desperation. A longing to understand what made her—and what might unmake her if she doesn’t face it.

There’s a weight she carries that most won’t see. Grief she’s wrapped in sarcasm. Guilt she tucks under sharp comebacks. A hunger for belonging that she hides in rolled eyes and cold silences. But beneath all that? She wants to be whole.

She wants to feel like her skin fits. Like her mind isn’t a battleground. Like her ancestors are more than whispers in the walls.

And in so many ways, she’s a reflection of my own journey.

I’ve always felt fundamentally different—like I was never going to fit in no matter how hard I tried. I have a lazy eye, and from a young age that made me feel marked, like I stood apart from everyone else. Add to that a phenotype that refuses to conform—I’ve been told I look Italian, Persian, Portuguese… everything but Dominican. And when I say I’m Dominican, I get that look. The one that asks me to prove it. To explain myself. To perform my identity.

At first, I tried. I wanted so badly to fit the mold, to belong somewhere without being questioned. But as I grew and started embracing all the fragments of myself, I realized that I don’t owe anyone a performance. The only person I have to prove anything to is me.

That’s the journey I gave Marisol. It’s not loud. It doesn’t end in a clean resolution. But it’s real. It’s raw. It’s honest.

Marisol Espinal is the kind of character who doesn’t shout her arrival. She creeps in quietly, under your skin, until you’re thinking about her long after you’ve closed the book.

You won’t always agree with her. You might not always like her. But you’ll understand her.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll see pieces of yourself reflected back.

#characterProfile #comingOfAge #DominicanIdentity #latineStories #magicalRealism #marisolEspinal #ownvoicesAuthor #psychologicalFiction #spiritualJourney #TheOrdinaryBruja