When I first started writing The Ordinary Bruja, I didn’t know that would be the title. I had ideas—working titles, vibes I was chasing, folders full of poetic options—but nothing stuck. Then one day, after writing a particularly raw scene, the words “ordinary bruja” landed in my mind like a whisper from the page.

And I laughed.

Because Marisol, my main character, doesn’t feel magical. Not at all.

She feels forgotten.
She feels invisible.
She feels like a girl who missed her chance to be someone extraordinary.

And isn’t that what most of us feel like sometimes?

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Ordinary Isn’t an Insult—It’s a Mirror

We live in a culture obsessed with the “main character.” Everyone’s trying to stand out, glow up, level up, find their aesthetic, brand their personality. So when you call someone ordinary, it’s often seen as an insult.

But here’s the truth: ordinary is where most of us live.
And it’s not a bad place to be.

Marisol doesn’t have glowing hands or a chosen-one prophecy. Her power doesn’t come in all at once. It simmers. It waits. It asks her to remember—not to become someone new, but to return to who she already was.

That’s why she’s an ordinary bruja.

Because magic isn’t always fireworks. Sometimes it’s memory.
Sometimes it’s gut instinct.
Sometimes it’s listening to flowers.
Sometimes it’s talking to your dead grandmother over coffee.

And yes—sometimes it’s just surviving the day without giving up on yourself.

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The Title Is Also a Lie (Sort Of)

Here’s the twist: Marisol isn’t actually ordinary.

Not really.

But that’s the entire point—she believes she is. Because of what she’s been told. Because of the bullying. Because of the silence in her family. Because when someone doesn’t explain who you are, you start to fill in the blanks with self-doubt.

The title The Ordinary Bruja is a reclamation.
It’s the lie she believes at the beginning and the truth she uncovers by the end.

She thinks being ordinary means she’s unremarkable.
She learns that being ordinary doesn’t cancel out her magic—it grounds it.

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Bruja but Make It Everyday

My favorite stories have always been the ones where magic hides in the mundane. The ones that say: what if the magic was always here, waiting for you to notice it?

That’s the kind of world I wanted to build in this book.

Because for Marisol, magic isn’t separate from her grief, her confusion, or her longing to belong. It’s tangled up in it.

And as someone who grew up watching women in my family talk to their altars, whisper to their plants, or stir herbs into the pot “for protection”—I know firsthand that real brujería isn’t all sparkle and spells. It’s daily. It’s rhythmic. It’s ancestral.

It’s ordinary.

And that doesn’t make it less powerful. It makes it more.

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A Word for the Readers Who Feel “Ordinary” Too

This title is also for you.

For the ones who think they’re too boring, too late, too unsure, too sensitive, too whatever to be the hero of their own story.

For the ones who didn’t grow up with answers, just questions.

For the ones trying to break cycles with no instruction manual, just a tired heart and a hopeful gut.

This book, and this title, is a love letter to you. To all of us.

Because ordinary doesn’t mean unworthy.
Ordinary doesn’t mean powerless.
Ordinary doesn’t mean you won’t bloom.

It just means your magic might look different. And maybe that’s the kind we need more of.