The Witch Wound: Fear, Persecution, and the Legacy of Being Seen

The “witch wound” is an ancestral scar, etched deep into the collective psyche of those who walk the path of healing, magic, and mysticism. It speaks to the lingering fear of persecution—of being seen, named, and punished for one’s gifts, wisdom, or independence. For so many sensitives, healers, and intuitives, this wound expresses itself as a hesitancy to step fully into one’s power, an unconscious dread of judgement, betrayal, or ostracism. Beneath it lies centuries of stories where those who lived outside the boundaries of social control—especially women—were branded as dangerous, othered, and, at worst, destroyed.

I turned to Crystal Dreaming regression to unravel the threads of this fear, hoping to understand my own resistance to trust and surrender, particularly in my closest relationship. What emerged was a vision that felt both ancient and immediate—a soul memory that revealed the origins of my reluctance to fully lean into love.

My Healing Story: Flames in the Square—A Regression into the Witch Wound

During my past life regression session, I found myself swept into a scene centuries past. I saw myself as a healer, wild and free, dwelling at the edge of a dense, whispering forest beyond a wary town. My cottage was a haven for those in need—a place where the desperate and the hopeful came seeking salves, tinctures, and shamanic guidance, or a steady hand during the mystery of birth. I moved with the grace of someone deeply embodied, alive to my own sacred feminine power; my sensuality was not hidden but celebrated, an offering to the land and to the goddess within.

Word spread of my wisdom, and people came quietly, grateful for my presence yet careful not to be seen. Among them was a man whose energy felt achingly familiar—my partner in this present life. We found each other again in that forest, lovers drawn by both affectionate connection and a shared hunger. Our encounters were passionate, honest, and unburdened by the chains of convention. I had no interest in the strictures of marriage or the approval of those who policed women’s bodies and desires. I was autonomous—emotionally, spiritually, even financially. He, however, was married, and while I asked only for mutual pleasure, honesty, and the kind of freedom most would never dare claim, fate had other plans.

However, fate’s turning grew ever sharper. Word of our affair slipped through the cracks of secrecy; his wife, wounded and furious, confronted him. In desperation and self-preservation, he claimed I had bewitched him, spinning a tale of enchantment to shield himself from blame. His accusation—uttered in trembling cowardice—became the spark that lit the pyre beneath my feet.

Because I lived as an independent, free-thinking woman, working outside the iron lattice of control, I was easily cast as a threat to the carefully guarded order. The fearful townsfolk seized upon the charge of witchcraft, and soon torches gathered at my door. I was dragged to the centre of the square, the one who had once offered them healing now condemned to fire by their fear.

I saw myself standing, heart racing yet unbowed, as the flames licked hungrily upward and the scent of smoke mingled with the wild herbs that had once filled my cottage. He was there, face pale with shame and guilt, refusing to look away. His wife’s smile glimmered with cruel satisfaction as the crowd’s cries rose and receded. Through the roar of the flames, I felt the ache of betrayal and the bitter taste of injustice, and yet, amidst the agony, a strange peace settled over me—a knowing that my spirit would endure, that my power could not be reduced to ash.

When the last embers faded and the square emptied, a hush fell upon the world. Under the cover of night, a circle of brave women approached what remained of me. They wrapped my body in linen, their hands gentle yet resolute, and carried me into the whispering forest. There, among ancient oaks and moonlit ferns, they buried me with reverence, blanketing my grave in a wild profusion of flowers.

Spirits gathered and showed me what followed: my secret grave became a pilgrimage for women. In the hush of dawn and under starlit veils of night, they came—seeking solace, whispering prayers for healing, for love, for the blessing of new life. My legacy, born from the flames, flourished in quiet defiance. I watched as my grave, woven with wildflowers and hope, became a sanctuary of feminine resilience—a sacred place where the persecuted could reclaim their power, and where I, in spirit, continued to answer their call.

In the wake of such a memory, I understood why trust felt so fraught—why, in the quiet moments of intimacy with my partner or within the sacred space of my healing work, a subtle shadow of fear lingered. The echoes of betrayal and the seared imprint of loss had woven themselves into the fabric of my being, making it hard to let love in without bracing for abandonment or to offer my gifts without dreading reprisal. That ancient wound was not just my own but carried in the bones and breath of so many who came before me, a testament to the cost of living one’s truth in a world uneasy with the wild and the wise.

Yet, through this sacred remembering, the knots began to loosen. Witnessing the origins of my pain allowed me to meet it with compassion, rather than shame or suspicion. I could see my partner’s flaws through the lens of human frailty, not as a prophecy of future betrayal. As I surfaced from this vision, its ripples extended beyond my own heart. My partner, too, was drawn into a current of remembering; subtle images and emotions rising to the surface, unbidden yet familiar. In our quiet moments together, the story woven from my regression unlocked memories and sensations within him: a recognition of patterns, of sorrow, and of the roles we had played across time. What began as my solitary healing unfolded into a shared exploration that called us both to acknowledge the tangled roots of hurt and longing stretching between our souls.

With gentle honesty, we opened ourselves to conversations about forgiveness, not as a single sweeping gesture, but as a slow, deliberate tending to old wounds. We spoke of regrets and second chances, of the ways fear and love had shaped our choices, and how the past, once seen with compassion, could become fertile ground for our growth. In bearing witness to each other's pain and accountability, we found ourselves forging a new path, where vulnerability became a bridge, and forgiveness the beginning of deeper trust.

I could meet my own longing to heal and to love as an act of courage, not of danger. The story no longer ended in flames but in flowers—each petal an invitation to reclaim my trust, to open again to connection and creation without the burden of old fears.

This experience taught me that the past need not dictate the future. By honouring the wounds and the wisdom they carry, I could step forward with a heart less guarded, choosing love over fear, and seeing my healing gifts as offerings rooted in resilience. In this way, the witch’s wound transformed into a wellspring—one that continues to nourish not only my own journey but the journeys of all who seek wholeness amid the ashes of what once was.