Tomorrow marks Lughnasadh—the first harvest. A sacred moment between the bright fullness of summer and the slow spiral into shadow. This year, it falls under the waxing energy of the First Quarter Moon of August, a phase of momentum, decision-making, and brave commitment. How fitting.
Because this year, I am harvesting more than intentions. I am harvesting healing.
Two weeks ago, I underwent hip surgery—a physical surrender that marked both a painful ending and an empowering beginning. As I sit in the quiet of this eve, wrapped in soft light and the golden scent of late summer, I can feel the edge of something new. Something I've worked toward for years but only now feel ready to step into. Two weeks into healing—and for the first time in a long while—I feel whole.
Lughnasadh has always been a threshold for me. Not just a sabbat of grain and sun, but a personal New Year of sorts. A mirror I hold to the year I’ve lived so far. The choices I’ve made. The intentions I planted in the cold dark of winter and have tended with shaking hands and stubborn hope. Some have blossomed. Some have withered. Some, I realize now, were never mine to grow.
And still—I reap.
I reap the quiet knowing that pain has passed through me but not become me.
I reap the deep-rooted strength of survival.
I reap the clarity that comes when you stop watering dead things.
I reap love—from those who stood beside me in the storm.
And I reap myself—the version of me that waited patiently beneath the rubble for a soft, solid place to stand.
This is the first Lughnasadh in years where I don’t feel like I’m clinging to fragments.
The wounds of the past—abandonment, betrayal, the silent ache of being unseen—have finally been named and laid down. I no longer carry them like sacred stones. I don’t need them anymore.
Instead, I carry a valiant heart.
Not because I’m fearless, but because I’m ready.
Ready to face the darker months not with dread but devotion.
Ready to walk into the inward spiral of autumn with eyes wide open.
Ready to meet Samhain, not just as a celebration of the dead—but as a woman very much alive.
Lughnasadh is about sacrifice. About honouring what must be given up so something greater can grow. For me, that sacrifice has been the old narratives. The smaller self. The fear that I would never be enough, never be safe, never be fully me.
Tonight, I leave that on the altar.
And in its place, I leave space for the woman I’m becoming.
The healer. The witch. The artist. The seeker.
The fire-tender. The shadow-walker.
The one who no longer apologises for her light.
So tonight, under this first quarter moon, I whisper a quiet spell of gratitude.
For my body, in all its flawed, fierce glory.
For my path, even when it curved into thorns.
For this sacred breath, and this one, and this one.
May this Lughnasadh bless you too—with clarity, with courage, with the golden abundance that rises when we choose to keep going, even when the way is hard.
We are harvesters. And we are the harvest.
A Lughnasadh Blessing
May the sun's last golden blaze warm your spirit.
May your harvest be rich—not just in grain and gain,
but in wisdom, healing, and deep inner truth.
May you have the courage to lay down what no longer serves
and the strength to rise into who you are becoming.
May the sacred cycle guide you gently inward
as the year tilts toward shadow and dreaming.
May your heart be valiant,
your hands open,
your spirit rooted and rising.
And may you walk forward
not with fear of the dark—
But with reverence for all it will reveal.
Blessed Lughnasadh, beloveds.
May you reap with joy.
May you rest in grace.
May you rise in power.
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