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.

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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.

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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.”

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.