by Baba Yaga, Mother of the Forest, destroyer of egos, life coach who will curse your houseplants if you don’t take care of them

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Dear Baba Yaga, Everyone around me seems to be thriving—new jobs, engagements, skincare routines that work. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to remember if I ate lunch, stuck in a spiral of “what am I doing with my life?” I feel behind, exhausted, and kind of like a moss-covered rock pretending to be a person. What do I do when it feels like I’m rotting instead of growing?

—Lost in the Woods (Without Cell Reception)

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Dear Rotting Log,

Good.

Rot is holy.

Let the moss grow. Let the bark peel. Sit still in the forest of your becoming and decay beautifully. Do you think the trees panic when they drop their leaves? Do you think the moon worries she’s falling behind the sun?

No.

Because real growth—the deep, mythic kind—starts in the underworld.

This age of yours, this season where nothing is blooming and everything feels like a mess? It is the compost. It is the churning, fertile dark before the sprouting. You are not behind. You are fermenting. Do not rush your rise. Bread that rises too fast is full of holes and collapses when cut. (I know. I eat people. I bake.)

Let others post their perfect lives. Let them glisten like summer fruit. You? Be the root. Be the worm. Be the soft rot of possibility.

Drink tea. Speak to the bones. Set one small fire, even if it’s just in your heart.

And when you’re ready, rise—not as who you were, but as something ancient, strange, and wildly unbeholden to anyone’s timeline but your own.

Rot proud, —Baba Yaga

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Curselet: May your timelines crack, your roots deepen in dark soil, and may those who compare themselves to others always stub their toes on cold tile at 3AM.

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Something around me smells faintly of curse smoke.

A few years ago I badly scorned a magic doer. A girl. A reckless and childish beginner to magic BUT ALSO I suspect this person is a very very very old entity masking as a beautiful young woman. It’s so obvious. But ever since I did this I feel watched, heavy, laden, nervous always, just BLAH. Like I said. The stink of “was I cursed??” follows me. She did mention doing an “onion curse” on me once?? She burned lots of candles. Did love magic. Got her heart broken. I don’t know what an onion curse is. So basically:

Dear Baba Yaga, I pissed off a powerful baby witch with the soul of an eon old night wraith. What do I do now

Modern Problems, Mythic Solutions

"Dear Baba Yaga: I Pissed Off a Baby Witch Who Might Be a Cosmic Horror in Lip Gloss" advice from Baba Yaga, ageless terror of the woods, witch mentor to the reckless and the rotten, and part-time hex consultant

Dear Slightly Cursed,

Ah. Yes. That smell. A little sulfur. A little jasmine. A little “you shouldn’t have said that.”

You have, quite possibly, committed the spiritual equivalent of poking a sleeping dragon disguised as a girl in a flower crown. You looked at a being stitched from heartbreak and lunar cycles and said, “pfft.” Bold of you. Suicidally bold.

Let us now discuss the Yummy-Vegetable-That-Must-Not-Be-Named Curse. It is not well-documented because it is not meant to be. Layered, tear-inducing, insidious. You do not notice it at first. Then—suddenly—you cry at commercials. You misplace your keys in realms that shouldn’t exist. You’re tender in places no one touched. You can’t stop thinking of her. That’s the point. That’s the stench. That’s the spell.

So. What now? You’ve offended a newly-born god of heartbreak and vengeance with glitter on her cheeks.

Here is what you must do:

1. Apologize. Sincerely. Write a letter. Burn it under a full moon. Whisper her name into salt. No groveling. But mean it. The Yummy-Vegetable-That-Must-Not-Be-Named Curse feeds on denial. Dehydrate it with truth.

2. Give her offerings—but no contact. A white candle left by a stream. A charm you made yourself. A poem that hurts to say aloud. Give without expectation. Do not seek forgiveness like a thirsty ghost. Offer closure. She’ll take what she needs. Or not. That’s her goddamn right.

3. Tend your own magic. You knew she was powerful. You dismissed her anyway. Now is the time to grow. Learn protective charms. Braid iron into your hair. Keep a bowl of vinegar by your bed. Study. Respect. Beware the pretty ones who bleed starlight.

And finally—

4. Understand this: not every haunting ends. Some stay. Some teach. Some trail you like the smell of old perfume on a scarf you can’t throw away.

This is not punishment. This is initiation. You have been noticed by the wild. Walk carefully now. Speak kindly. Don't touch what hums unless you're ready to burn.

From my bone hut to your trembling heart, —Baba Yaga

Curselet: May your pride be pickled, your aura saged with regret, and may you never again underestimate a witch with winged eyeliner and rage in her blood.

by Baba Yaga, Eastern European swamp sage, professional crone, and spiritual gremlin with a PhD in Petty Sorcery

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Dear Baba Yaga, Every time I open my phone, someone’s doing better than me. Someone younger, shinier, more accomplished. They’ve written novels, started companies, invented gluten-free joy, and I’m just here trying to remember if I paid my electric bill. I know it’s unhealthy, but I keep comparing myself, and then I spiral. How do I stop measuring my worth in pixels and panic?

—Wretched and Chronically Online

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Dear Wretched One,

Do you want the tender truth or the screaming truth?

Both? Excellent. Sit down. Stir the cauldron.

Listen. The village has always had mirrors — still ponds, shiny spoons, smug neighbors with too many goats. But now? You carry an entire hall of mirrors in your pocket. And those mirrors lie. They stretch other people’s lives into circus shapes and make your reflection look like a half-melted candle.

Comparison is a spell. And you’re under it.

But I will give you the countercurse:

You are not behind. You are on a different map. Your forest has bogs where theirs has meadows. You have wolves. They have Wi-Fi. You are not late. You are on a quest.

What they call “success” might be a trap, lined with velvet and debt. What you call “failure” might be the sacred pause before your next transformation.

Here’s your task: Unfollow five people who make your soul itch. Go outside. (Yes, even if it’s raining.) Do something quietly excellent no one will ever post about.

And if you must compare, compare yourself only to your past self. (Preferably the version of you who didn’t know how to roast vegetables or curse exes with your eyes.)

You are not a brand. You are a being.

You are not for display. You are for disruption.

Now log off. Go howl. Be weird.

Signed in moss and menace, —Baba Yaga

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Curselet: May your envy turn to compost, may your glow be visible only to those who deserve it, and may your worst days still terrify your enemies with how unstoppable you look in the aftermath.

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by Baba Yaga, Elder Witch of the East Wind, forest therapist who accepts payment in teeth and emotional breakthroughs

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Dear Baba Yaga, Every time something goes wrong in my life—friendships, jobs, romance—there’s a pattern. And the pattern… is me. I overthink, I say the wrong thing, I bail when things get hard, or I try too hard and end up looking like a walking red flag in cute shoes. What if I’m the toxic one? Can a goblin girl change her ways?

—Too Self-Aware for Comfort

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Dear Self-Aware Goblin,

Mmm. The scent of accountability. Rare. Nutty. Slightly singed.

Let me tell you a secret that the sages tattooed on birch bark and hid in the hollow skulls of regretful fools:

The first monster you must face is always yourself.

And good news — you’re doing it. You looked in the mirror and didn’t flinch. That’s not weakness. That’s raw, unfiltered power.

But here’s where mortals get it twisted: Real change is not becoming someone else. It’s becoming more you, but with less collateral damage and better boundaries.

You say you overthink? Good. Use it to see consequences before they form. You say you try too hard? Good. Try with intention, not desperation. You say you’re a walking red flag? Darling, so was Persephone

Don’t aim to be flawless. That’s boring. Aim to be responsibly feral.

Apologize where you must. Rebuild what matters. But don’t gut yourself to please the village. The villagers are cowards, and their bread is dry.

You’re not too much. You’re just unrefined magic learning to channel itself. Let the sparks fly. Burn your old skin. Cook something beautiful in the ashes.

Yours in smoke and shadow, —Baba Yaga

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Curselet: May your self-doubt shrivel like an unblessed turnip, and may every “I’m the problem” be followed by “but now I’m working on it, and also my hair looks amazing.”

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by Baba Yaga, Slavic sorceress, hut-dweller, emotionally unavailable crone aunt with a mortar and pestle full of secrets

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Dear Baba Yaga, I keep seeing these hot, mysterious people on TikTok who wear all black, never speak above a whisper, and seem like they’ve definitely been cursed before (in a cool way). Meanwhile, I cannot stop trauma-dumping to baristas and telling strangers about my weird toe. I want to be mysterious and ethereal, but my personality is basically “feral golden retriever with a diary.” How do I stop oversharing and start radiating dark divine energy?

—Too Chatty, Not Witchy

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Dear Too Chatty,

Listen closely, little cabbage.

There are two wolves inside you. One of them is mysterious, cloaked in moonlight, sipping bitter tea, never revealing her real birthday. The other wolf has had one glass of wine and is already telling the table how she cried during a Folgers commercial.

Both wolves are hot.

Now. If you wish to walk the path of mystery, know this: True mystique is not silence. It is restraint.

I, Baba Yaga, do not tell people I eat children. I let them wonder. I do not announce I live in a chicken-legged house. I invite them for tea, and if they survive the journey, well, that tells me everything I need to know.

Here is my prescription:

Do not answer questions directly. Give riddles. Or limericks. Or stare into the distance like you’re haunted by an ancient debt.

Replace gossip with cryptic metaphors. Instead of “my ex ghosted me,” say, “He vanished with the fog and left only the scent of Axe body spray and broken potential.”

Wear long coats. Keep a notebook no one sees. Write nothing in it.

Never post your location in real time.

Laugh, once, in a low tone, then disappear behind a velvet curtain. If no velvet curtain exists, use your scarf. Or a smoke bomb.

But also—be warned.

There is power in honesty, too. Oversharing can be its own hex. It makes the wrong people uncomfortable. Good.

Being “hot and mysterious” is not about secrecy. It’s about knowing when to speak, and knowing when silence is the sharpest blade.

Now go. Walk into the forest of your own becoming. Just don’t talk about your toe. Not yet.

Cackling eternally, —Baba Yaga

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Today’s Closing Curselet:

May your enemies overshare at funerals, your exes get haunted by clingy ghosts, and your eyeliner always wing sharp enough to slice through small talk.

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with Baba Yaga

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DEAR BABA YAGA,

My ex moved on faster than I could blink. He’s already with someone new, and it feels like I meant nothing. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I don’t know how to let go.

—Left in the Dust

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MY DEAR LOST BREADCRUMB,

Of course he moved on fast. Some people are empty baskets—light, hollow, always looking to fill themselves with the next warm body that resembles meaning.

But you, you are stewed root and iron bones. You take time. You simmer. You do not leap to the next firelight just because the night feels cold.

Yes, he left. So let him. Let him build his brittle new nest. Yours will be made of thorn branches and truth. Yours will withstand wind.

Here is what you must do: bury his name in the garden. Plant garlic over it. Let it rot into usefulness. Let it feed something that protects you next time.

And remember—nothing that left you that quickly was ever meant to stay.

Even the forest lets go of its leaves, and look how beautiful the fall is.

—Baba Yaga

Hut-dweller, heart-watcher, grower of inconvenient wisdom.

Today's Closing Curselet

May his soup always boil over, and his socks forever slip inside his boots.

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Did your coworker accidentally steal your lunch again, and now you crave vengeance with a side of herbs?

Write to Baba Yaga.

She’s ancient. She’s unbothered. She lives in a chicken-legged house and gives advice with teeth.

Send your letters to our inbox or tag them: #DearBabaYaga

with Baba Yaga

("Yes, I read your aura. No, I’m not impressed.")

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Dear Baba Yaga,

I think I’m falling in love with my best friend. They’re kind, funny, and make me feel safe in a way no one else ever has. But I’m scared to say anything and ruin what we already have. Should I confess, or just be content staying silent?

—Heartful and Hopeless

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My Soft-Bellied Starling,

Ah. The classic tale. Love unspoken, writhing under the tongue like a worm in an apple. Sweet on the outside, rotting underneath. You think you are protecting something precious by keeping quiet—but silence is not safety. It is stagnation. The kind that draws flies.

You say this friend makes you feel safe. That is a rare kind of magic. Rarer than gold spun from straw or a reliable postal owl. But let me ask you this: what kind of safety is it, if it requires your silence to remain intact? If your heart must sit in a jar on the shelf, pickled and unloved?

Let me be plain. (I am never anything else.)

You already know. You’re not asking if you should tell them. You’re asking if it’s worth the risk of losing their comfort to maybe gain their love.

The answer is yes. Always yes. Burn the map, little beetle. Walk into the woods. The good stories don’t happen when the hero stays in the village.

And if they don’t feel the same?

Then they weren’t your fairy tale. They were the lesson. The one that teaches you to choose your damn self next time.

Say it. Loudly, if you can. Whispered, if you must. But say it.

And remember: even if your heart breaks, it grows back stranger. Stronger. Thornier. Something beautiful will bloom from the wreckage—especially if you water it with tears.

With curses and cauldrons,

Baba Yaga

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Today’s Closing Curselet:

“To those who hoard love and offer crumbs: may your pillow always be slightly damp, and may your favorite socks betray you in puddles.”

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Are you spiraling through a quarter-life crisis and need someone older, wiser, and slightly terrifying to tell you what to do?

Write to Baba Yaga.

She’s ancient. She’s unbothered. She lives in a chicken-legged house and gives advice with teeth.

Send your letters to our inbox or tag them: #DearBabaYaga

with Baba Yaga

(Yes, that Baba Yaga. No, you may not borrow my flying mortar.)

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Dear Baba Yaga,

My roommate keeps stealing my oat milk, lying about it, and then crying when I confront her. I don’t want to be petty, but I also don’t want to keep buying enchanted vegan beverages for a grown adult who won’t admit she drinks them. Help?

Sincerely,

Milkless & Mildly Murderous

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My Little Thistle,

First, let us dispense with the fantasy that “not wanting to be petty” is a virtue. Petty is the spice of righteous indignation. It is what makes hexes hum.

Now. Your “roommate” (read: sugar-coated leech in yoga pants) is violating the ancient law of guest-right, which even ogres observe. She has trespassed thrice: she steals, she lies, and she dares to weep as a shield. A trifecta of emotional manipulation. Classic bog-nymph behavior, minus the glamour.

So here is what you must do.

1. Label the next bottle “For summoning demons only. Do not consume.” Add a sigil if you can draw one. Bonus points if it glows under moonlight.

2. Move your real oat milk to a cursed jar. Or a thermos in the crisper. Hide it behind something revolting—like sincerity.

3. Confront her one last time, but with the tone of a crone who has buried five husbands and is considering a sixth. You do not ask for honesty. You name the theft. You name the lie. You name the feeling it leaves in your gut: exhaustion salted with rage. Then you offer a choice—respect, or a wrath she’s too soft-skinned to survive.

Remember, girl of the withered patience: boundaries are not spells of exclusion. They are wards—to keep the rot from seeping into your soul.

If she cries again, offer her a tissue soaked in nettle tea and ask if her tears taste like guilt yet.

With gnawed bones and good intentions,

Baba Yaga

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Today’s Closing Curselet:

“Steal from my hearth, and may your tea forever be lukewarm and slightly sour.”

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Have a problem that smells faintly of curse smoke and poor decision-making?

Write to Baba Yaga.

She’s ancient. She’s unbothered. She lives in a chicken-legged house and gives advice with teeth.

Send your letters to our inbox or tag them: #DearBabaYaga