When I think back to my childhood, some of my clearest memories aren’t of toys or school — they’re of prayers.

The sound of women’s voices moving through rosaries in a rhythm so fast it felt almost impossible to keep up. Their lips moving like a current — one long, synchronized murmur of faith.

Even as a child, I knew there was something otherworldly about it.

The Enchantment in Faith

Back then, I didn’t have words for what I was feeling. I just knew it felt powerful — the way sound could transform a room. How grief and devotion could share the same breath.

These women — my grandmother, her friends, the neighbors who filled our home for novenas — would rock back and forth, beads clutched tight, voices thick with longing. I’d watch from a corner, mesmerized, trying to catch the rhythm, to understand how they could recite the prayers so quickly and never lose their place.

It felt like spellwork.

And maybe it was, in its own way.

I grew up seeing Catholicism and La Regla — the Afro-Caribbean spiritual tradition rooted in Yoruba beliefs — practiced side by side, seamlessly intertwined. One moment we’d be saying the Ave María, and the next, someone would whisper a prayer to an orisha. No one saw contradiction in it. It was just life.

Where Faith Meets Magic

It wasn’t until years later that I realized how those experiences shaped how I see the world — and how I write it.

To me, faith and magic have always been two sides of the same coin. Both are about belief, energy, and reverence. Both ask you to trust something unseen.

When I write stories like The Ordinary Bruja, I’m not inventing magic out of nowhere. I’m pulling from those real-life rituals — from the hum of rosary beads, from the cadence of prayer circles, from the quiet moments when grief and hope braided themselves together through sound.

That was my first introduction to magic — not from books or fantasy, but from the mouths of women who prayed like their words could open doors between worlds.

Why I Cherish Those Memories

Now, when I look back, I understand why I was so captivated. Those novenas were my first lessons in storytelling — collective rhythm, repetition, call and response.

And they taught me something sacred:
that belief doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.
That language — whether it’s a chant, a spell, or a whispered Amén — carries energy.

I think that’s why my writing always finds its way back to that same heartbeat.

Want to See How it all Came Out?