There are objects we own because they are practical, and then there are objects we keep because they hold something deeper. Something emotional. Something spiritual. Something that reminds us of the version of ourselves we are constantly becoming.

For me, that object is a mug.
A white and pink mug with bold gold lettering that says: Girl Boss.

It was my husband who spotted it first. We were at Marshall’s, walking through the home goods aisle, and he held it up with this little grin as if he already knew exactly what it would mean to me. I remember laughing when I saw it, because it felt so on-brand. So me. So unapologetically affirming. I didn’t buy it because I needed another mug. I bought it because something inside me said, “You’re going to need this.”

And I did.

The Girl Boss mug is not about hustle culture or capitalism or being busy for the sake of productivity. It is not about projecting strength 24/7 or pretending I have it all figured out. It is much more personal than that. For me, the phrase is spiritual. Emotional. A grounding reminder. A talisman of empowerment disguised as something ordinary.

There are days when I feel strong. Days when I feel aligned. Days when my bruja energy is intact, my spirit is centered, and I remember exactly who I am and what I am capable of. On those days, drinking from the mug feels like celebration.

But there are also days when I feel the exact opposite.

Days when I am overwhelmed.
Days when anxiety sits too close.
Days when my self-doubt gets loud.
Days when life hits harder than expected.
Days when I feel tired in places I cannot name.
Days when the version of me who is powerful feels distant.

On those days, the Girl Boss mug becomes something else entirely.
It becomes a reminder.

A reminder that I have survived worse.
A reminder that I have risen from things that were supposed to break me.
A reminder that even when I feel small, the core of me is still strong.
A reminder that my softness and my power coexist.

This is why, when I returned to El Paso and settled back into my routine, I moved the mug to my bedside table. It was an intuitive choice, an emotional one, a small shift that felt significant. Now, every night before bed, I drink water from it as I take my medication. It has become part of my nighttime ritual, part of the way I close my day with intention.

There is something about ending the night with water — the symbol of cleansing, release, and renewal — held in a mug that reminds me of who I am. It is a gentle ritual of empowerment. A pairing of softness and courage. A practice of meeting myself with compassion and truth.

Some nights I pick up the mug and stare at the words for a moment longer than usual. On those nights, I am not just reading a phrase. I am speaking to myself. I am mothering myself. I am coaching myself the way a good trainer hypes up a boxer before a fight.

You are strong.
You are capable.
You are resilient.
You are evolving.
You are that girl — even when you forget.

It is amazing how something as simple as a mug can hold so much emotional weight, but that is the beauty of ritual objects. They become charged with meaning. They become extensions of our inner worlds. They hold reminders, affirmations, and energy that we return to over and over again.

In my soft bruja practice, I believe in using what feels aligned, not what looks stereotypically witchy. And for me, this mug is part of my magic. It empowers me. Grounds me. Comforts me. It fits into my spiritual lifestyle the way crystals, herbs, and tarot do — not through tradition, but through intention.

To anyone else, it is just a mug.
To me, it is a daily affirmation in gold letters.

It is the reminder that even on my weakest days, I am still powerful.
It is the reminder that I am still the author of my life, my story, my path.
It is the reminder that I continue to build, grow, and become — even when the world feels heavy.

One day, when my new reading and writing nook is built, this mug will sit on the little side table next to my chair. It will be part of my creative ritual, part of my grounding ritual, part of the energy I bring into my storytelling.

For now, it sits beside my bed like a quiet guardian — a daily reminder that strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers through everyday objects. Sometimes it glows softly in gold letters. Sometimes it greets you at night, right before you close your eyes.

And sometimes, strength looks like taking a sip of water and remembering:
You are powerful. Even here. Even now.