Hello everyone! It’s #optomstudies here again with another study tip on Part Time Work! I received the following asks from anons, thank you for prompting this! :) I’m by no means an expert, but this is the advice that I gained while looking for my own job.
hey, i recently finished reading all your study tips so far and i just wanted to let you know that they’re super helpful!! i’m starting uni next month and im soo glad that i came across your series bc now i feel less anxious about starting!! if you have time, i would love it if you have any tips about getting a part-time job in uni? like yourself, i didn’t think that i could manage high school + part time job so i would rlly love some advice from you again if possible!
Realise that you can juggle part time work, but don’t bite off more than you can chew. Working more than 2-3 days a week will stress you out, as you won’t have time to complete both uni work and enjoy a little destressing time. I’d advise max 1.5 days a week for a 5 day degree, and that’s if you use 80% of the remaining time studying. Count any other commitments as part of these ‘work’ hours too - if you have church, younger siblings to cook for, etc. Most unis advise 2 hours of self-study per contact hour at uni for degrees like science/engineering, and up to 4 for arts/commerce degrees! So factor that in when you’re planning.
Research an entry level job that relates to your degree. The best types of jobs would be those in which you are assistants to the position you want to work in once you have graduated. Just ensure that the position promises you on-the-job training, as most students likely have limited employment experiences outside retail and tutoring.
Research how to write a great first resume and practice interview skills. Your university careers website will contain plenty of information, as well as templates for your first resume to highlight your strengths. There is a wealth of information out there regarding the actual process of CV-writing and interviews, so refer to those :) Make sure you research the company you want to work with, their values and also personalise your resume and cover letter to highlight why you would be suited for that position and what you can bring as an employee.
Hand in your resume personally to each store you apply to. Politely ask if you can speak to the manager, dress in business clothing, introduce yourself in a friendly manner and ask them to consider your resume if a position ever opens. If it’s for an advertised position, call back in 1-2 weeks to check up on them and thank them for their consideration. Even if the position is filled, you can still gain valuable information by asking them why you weren’t hired (politely of course), since you have nothing to lose. They may have noticed something about your cover letter or resume that put them off choosing, or they might let you know it was fine but they just had a more qualified individual applying.
Prepare for common questions on interviews, and just be yourself. My manager, who was so kind as to give me a chance despite not having much work experience, told me that she liked my honesty and enthusiasm which is why she hired me. Most of the time for an entry level position, they aren’t looking too much for technical skills as they are looking for personality (well at least for retail positions anyway) and transferable skills like communication and interpersonal skills.
I hoped this helped everyone! I do have an #employment tag but tips don’t float around the studyblr as often as posts on study methods (please send me links if you find anything, thank you!! :D) so I’ve just linked the posts here:
Hello can I request a bts reaction where they found you listening to heavy metal which makes them find out about your metal/emo phase??? Thank you I would be happy if you did it
“Don’t lie. What emo phase? Wait, this is yours? Baby, you are the cutest emo out there.”
“My emo phase was worst than yours. Actually, I’m still going through it. We can go through it together. Good. Couple for life.”
“Y/n, I thought your taste in music will be more on the popish side. I didn’t expect that. You can help me find some good rythyms for our next album. Emo.”
“Heavy metal, huh? What kind of choreography will I be able to pull for you? I want your style to represent mine, angel.”
“I haven’t listened to Heavy Metal. Is it too heavy? I mean like…I don’t know. I can’t imagine you being a emo. You are such a squishy.”
“What metals? Y/N DON’T TELL ME YOU’VE BEEN LIFTING HEAVY METALS AS A PART-TIME JOB! DID YOUR EMPLOYER CALLED YOU EMO. But that’s not your name. Also it’s not good for you. You can hurt your back. Quit this part-time job.
“I also listen to this. We can listen together. I don’t know what else to say. You want me to dye your hair?” “Jeon Jungkook, what the actual fuck?” “I thought this was emo like behaivior.” “Leave.”
i keep thinking “i can’t look for an apartment where i wanna live until i have a job/jobs” and then i look around for jobs and i think “well i can’t apply to places until i know i have somewhere to live”
Meeting an annoyed Tsukishima after his place of (part-time)
employment (maybe a gas station or maybe a corner store) had been robbed. He’s
nearing his end of schooling, finals and the works are upon him, Tsukishima was
not in the mood for that. So Kuroo takes his statement, trying not to snicker
at the annoyance dripping from his tone as he explains word for word what
about 5’6”. Big nose, pale skin. Blue eyes, brown hair. Some undercut looking thing. He had a hammer, which was
fucking stupid, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with that shit. He wanted the
money in the till, I asked if he wanted change as well—he didn’t find that
amusing.” (Note: my boss while I was working at a gas station asked that very
thing when he was being robbed. It was one of my favourite stories of his. He
was a sassy dude.)
Kuroo has been working a lot of shitty hours, only really
able to make it home twice that week and he spent those five hours that he was
home passed out in bed before leaving again. Tsukishima only knew that he had
been home because of the notes Kuroo left on the fridge saying that he was
sorry he couldn’t stay longer, and that he missed him. Tsukishima shakes his
head, he knew that long hours were something that a police officer had to put
up with and he knew that before even
getting into a relationship with the man. So, one night after work he stops in
still in his veterinarian uniform to bring him some take out and coffee. The
other officers tease Kuroo about “the wife” bringing him food, but the grin on
Kuroo’s face when he sees Tsukishima is priceless.
Kuroo gets shot on the job while Tsukishima is writing a
final exam (last year of his Master’s Program) and when he turns his phone on
he’s flooded with messages from Kuroo’s phone and his work mates (‘cause
Tsukishima has a lot of their numbers. Even the Police Chief whom he calls and
tells him to give Kuroo a day off every so often ‘cause Kuroo tends to “forget”.
You can never say that Kuroo doesn’t love his job). Kuroo is fine, for the most
part, which Tsukishima finds out after rushing to the hospital. The surgery
went fine, the shots (yes, multiple) missed any major organs and he’s been
moved to his own private room—yes Tsukishima wants to see him, thanks.
Tsukishima has a kink. Kuroo laughs so fucking hard when he
learns that not ONLY does Tsukishima have a thing for handcuffs, but he also is
majorly turned on by the man in his uniform. “Tsukki, babe, this is just a regular
outfit. How do you expect me to get
ready for work when you’re constantly looking at me like that?” (“Shut up
Managing money isn’t
always easy. So whether you’re a student or not take a read and see
whether an of this advice can help you out on making your pounds (or
whatever currency you use) go further.
Get a calendar and mark
every day where money is entering your account in one colour. I mean
everything so that includes your student loan/ maintenance grant;
your pay day wage if you have a job; any income support your family
gives you etc. In another colour mark the dates in which money is
leaving your account. For example, your housing rent, your house
bills; phone bill; subscriptions to magazines and sites such as
Netflix. Once you can visually see when money is entering and leaving
it will be a lot easier to manage.
Earn money. You can’t
complain that money is only ever exiting your account if you are not
doing anything to earn money. I do suggest looking for part-time
employment whilst in study as it will help with the unexpected costs
that will arise but that is not always possible. Alternatively, sign
up to be a tutor of your favourite subject or offer your services as
a babysitter and handyman to the local neighbours.
Work out your weekly
budget for food and spend only that. At the beginning of the week buy
your food and prepare meals to last you for the week. Stick them in
the freezer and they’ll last for ages.
Shop on a sunday
evening. All the best discounts happen on a sunday evening. Don’t be
drawn in by special offers, simply go for the cheapest. You don’t
need that expensive cheese your parents buy all the time, only buy
what you can afford.
Left over change? Stick
it in a money box and save it to treat yourself.
Open up a savings
account and transfer any money that is for bills only to there so
you’re not tempted to spend it.
Cut the cost of your
bills. Wear another jumper and turn off the heating. Take showers not
baths. Turn off taps and lights. Hang up your clothes don’t tumble
As a professional genealogist and local historian, I have come across some weird things in the forgotten pages of history. I first dove into genealogy because I wanted to know where I came from. Not as in, I wanted to know what countries my ancestors immigrated to America from. Rather, as in, I wanted to know where I as an individual came from. My memory begins fourteen years ago, when I was about eighteen years old. Prior to that point in time is complete amnesia.
I remember awakening in a hospital room that seemed too white. I studied my surroundings—the white walls, white drapes, white tile floor, white bed sheets—all the same shade of white, no less. I felt calm, as though all of this were normal. When a nurse came in and noticed I had woken up, she asked me what my name was, how old I was, and where I lived. I knew none of the answers. With a concerned expression, she asked me if I knew what year it was, or if I knew who the president was, or if I knew what state I was in. I continued to draw blanks.
I asked her why my body was so bandaged up. She explained to me that I was in a hospital in Ohio, and I had been struck by a vehicle in a hit-and-run. There had been no identification on my person. They had been waiting for me to come out of my coma for the last three days, hoping I could tell them who I was. I apologized for not being of any help, and then felt silly—as if I had any control over my lack of memory.
As the nurse turned to leave and fetch the doctor, I found myself blurting out, as if my mouth were controlled by another person: “Bramwell Lindemann!”
The nurse faced me. “Bramwell Lindemann? Is that your name?”
I paused. That didn’t feel right. “No, I am pretty sure that’s not my name. I don’t know why I said that.” I knew the name must have meant something to me before the accident, but I didn’t know what.
The doctor came in and examined me. I heard him say, “Caucasian male, approximately eighteen years of age”. After a litany of tests, the doctor contacted the police department to inform them that I was now conscious and speaking. Two officers came and took a very unhelpful statement from me regarding the accident. When they learned of my amnesia, they searched through countless missing person reports, but no matches were found. Though my story was mentioned two nights in a row on the local news, and the anchors asked anyone who recognized my photo to call the hospital and claim me, no one did.
After recuperating in the hospital for a few more days, the staff declared me fit to leave. I wandered out into the street, with no name, no wallet, no money, no home, and no knowledge of my surroundings. They called me John Doe in the hospital, so that is the name I have stuck with since the year 2000.
I lived on the streets for a couple of weeks, then moved into a shelter and secured part-time employment. I soon found a small apartment. I seemed to have an excellent grasp on math, reading, and science—indicating that I had already attended high school. However, with no identity to prove it, I had to start over. I earned my GED, and then found enough scholarships and student loans to put myself through college. A few years ago, I married the love of my life—Daphne. A true testament to her love for me, she insisted on taking my legal surname, Doe—even at the expense of having a name with goofy alliteration. In climbing the social ladder and building a normal and successful life, I had an advantage over many of the homeless friends I had made in my younger years, in that I didn’t seem to have any addictions or major health problems, other than lingering soreness from the hit-and-run.
While I managed well without knowing my true origins, the question always nagged me in the back of my mind. One day, I saw an Internet ad for Ancestry.com. The first name I searched for on that website was the name I had blurted out in the hospital room: “Bramwell Lindemann”. No exact hits. There were some results for individuals named “B. Lindemann,” but upon further investigation, each of them turned out to be a “Balthasar” or a “Bertha” or a “Bryant”. My heart leapt when I found a record for a “Bram Lindeman,” but I soon found that this individual’s full first name was “Abram”.
Once I started, I could not stop. I expanded my research to the offline world, and found myself at the library studying past issues of local newspapers for any clues as to my origins, and going to area schools and looking through nearby high school yearbooks for any photos that resembled me. I became adept at navigating old records, and friends began to ask me to research their family history for them. This turned into a full-time business for me, but I have never stopped searching for my own origins.
I have even taken DNA tests for Y-DNA, mitochondrial DNA, and ethnicity—these tests matched me up with a handful of other users and claim that, based on our DNA similarities, we are approximately sixth cousins or so (indicating that my 5xgreat grandparents, whoever they were, were probably also the ancestors of the other user). However, these DNA databases have never pinpointed a close cousin of mine. Considering that, barring any inbreeding, every person has one hundred twenty eight 5xgreat grandparents (because you have 2 parents, 4 grandparents, 8 great grandparents, 16 great great grandparents, and so on), determining which of these 128 ancestors is the one I share with each of these other users is impossible.
Every so often throughout the years, I have made a post on this or that Internet genealogy forum, asking that if anyone has ever come across a “Bramwell Lindemann” in their research, would they please get in touch with me. I had never gotten a response. In fits of discouragement, I would go back months later and delete these unnoticed posts of mine from the forums.
The humorous irony of someone who doesn’t know their own name, let alone their ancestry, becoming an expert on other people’s history, has never been lost on my wife, friends, and colleagues.
A month ago, I went out on a limb and made another post to a forum asking about any information on “Bramwell Lindemann”. The next morning, I received an email with the title, “Bramwell Lindemann”. Though I had just gotten out of bed and had not even had my coffee, every one of my senses became alert in an instant.
The body of the message read as follows: “Dear researcher, I saw on [forum name] that you had inquired about Bramwell Lindemann. In my late grandmother’s box of family history documents, there were several photographs with names written on the backs that I have never been able to place. On the back of one of these old photographs is written what seems to be the name ‘Bramwell Lindemann,’ although it is written sloppily. I have scanned the photograph and attached the image file to this email. Perhaps this can be of assistance to you, and perhaps you can tell me more about who this man was. My grandmother was born and raised in Vinton, Iowa, so the fellow in this photograph may have also lived there or nearby. Sincerely, [name redacted to protect his privacy]”
My fingers trembling, I clicked the attachment and loaded up the scanned image of the photograph. As the top rows of pixels loaded, I noticed the aged brownish-yellowness of the photo. By the coloring alone, it was probably a hundred years old. The rows of pixels continued to load downward. The man’s hair was neat and oiled. As his forehead, then his eyes, then his nose, and his chin came into view, my jaw lowered. It was me. Or rather, someone who looked identical to me. This man could be my great grandfather. The resemblance was mind-blowing.
I replied to the sender, lavishing thanks upon him for sending the photograph. Then, I put down everything and booked a flight to Des Moines for the next day. After arriving in Des Moines, I trekked straight to the Iowa State Historical Society Library and set to work looking for Mr. Lindemann. I first searched all the county death records in Benton County (where the town of Vinton is located) and all surrounding counties for Bramwell Lindemann. It seemed to be a common last name in that area, but no Bramwell Lindemann could be found having died in the area.
I then pulled out case after case of microfilm containing issues of newspapers from Vinton and the surrounding area. I spent hours rolling through issue after issue of microfilmed newspaper, and I began to lose hope. Not much time left until the library closed. That’s when I saw it. A small newspaper blurb, buried in a wall of text in a June 1900 edition. The name in the text caught my eye, and wouldn’t let go: “B. Lindemann Kills Wife and Child,” read the tiny headline.
The article stated: “Bramwell Lindemann, local farmer, 23 years of age, walked into the police station Monday to confess to the murder of his wife of 5 years, Catherine, and their 3-year-old son, Quentin. He stated to police that he revived from a daze to find himself covered in blood and digging through his wife’s and son’s entrails with a knife. He claimed not to remember what had happened, and no longer remembered his name or who he was, but said he knew he had done something wicked, and set out to find a police station to confess so that justice might be done. Mr. Lindemann was taken under arrest pending further investigation.”
Chills ran down my spine. This man from over a century ago, who bore a striking resemblance to me, also suffered from an inexplicable case of amnesia. Perhaps this man really is my ancestor. Perhaps there is some genetic trait I inherited from him that causes these strange bouts of amnesia. However, the fact that Bramwell awoke from his amnesia to find himself mutilating the corpses of his loved ones disturbed me.
I pressed onward through the newspaper editions, finding an article a month later stating that Bramwell had been sentenced to 7 years in the Anamosa State Prison. The judge explained the relatively lenient sentencing as being due to the fact that Bramwell seemed to have committed the act in a moment of temporary insanity and appeared genuinely penitent. I jumped ahead seven years in the old newspapers to 1907, when Bramwell would have been released. Sure enough, there was one miniscule mention of him in the “Local Gossip” section of the paper: “B. Lindemann, formerly of this town, was recently released from Anamosa. In order to try to forget his sordid past, he has opted to legally change his name to Lamar Smith and moved northwest to conduct his farming near the town of Mallard.”
I sat back in my chair, stunned for a moment. I had finally found Bramwell Lindemann, and furthermore, discovered what had become of him. I could not stop just yet. I found the town of Mallard in Palo Alto County and set to work researching that county’s records for Lamar Smith. I found him in the 1910 federal census records, his name slightly misspelled. He was a single farmer, and claimed to be only 20 years old. That didn’t seem right. He was said to have been about 23 years old when he was arrested in 1900, meaning he was born about 1877. That means he should be about 33 years old in this 1910 census. I went forward a decade and found Lamar Smith in the same area again in the 1920 census, still single, still a farmer. He still claimed to be 20 years old in this census. By now, he should have been 43—there is no way he could have passed for a mere 20. Why was he giving these reports to the census takers? I did not find Lamar Smith in the area in the 1930 federal census records, but there was no record of him dying and being buried in the region either. Again, I returned to the microfilmed newspapers.
Sure enough, I found an edition of an area newspaper from 1925, which read: “LOCAL FARMER’S FAMILY BRUTALLY MURDERED—Ed Anliker, farmer east of town, awoke to a gruesome sight in his home yesterday morning. His neighbor, Mr. Lamar Smith, had stabbed Mr. Anliker’s wife and four children to death in their sleep. When Mr. Smith was found, he was consuming the blood and innards of his victims. After being taken into custody by the sheriff, Mr. Smith had no explanation for his actions, and furthermore claimed to have forgotten who and where he was. Mr. Smith has no known relatives in the area. He began farming here nearly twenty years ago, and while neighbors say he is a peculiar man who kept to himself, he was always hailed as a kindly and youthful man, who seems as young today as he is remembered being two decades ago. His crimes bring extreme shock and sorrow to the community.”
Below the article was printed a grainy black and white photograph, with the caption, “L. Smith”. The man was definitely Bramwell Lindemann, and indeed, it appeared that he had not aged a day.
Pressing onward through the newspapers, I discovered Lamar Smith having been sentenced to 30 years, once again to be served in Anamosa. By now, the library was closing. I got a hotel room in Des Moines for the night, and the next day took a rental car to Anamosa to investigate their old records.
Lamar Smith, it seems, had been released on good behavior after only 25 years. After leaving prison in 1950, he disappeared from the records. I scoured Ancestry.com and NewspaperArchive.com and other research websites. Countless “Lamar Smiths” flooded my results, but one stood out. A 1950 newspaper from Spokane, Washington said that a young local man named Lamar Smith was seen wallowing in the blood of a homeless man he had murdered. When confronted by a passerby, Lamar took on a blank and confused facial expression and ran away. His whereabouts were not known.
At this point, the trail for Lamar Smith went dead cold. I could find no further reference to a Lamar Smith matching what I knew about this man. I took a flight home, feeling defeated. I spent days trying every research method I could think of in order to locate what had happened to Lamar Smith after fleeing the murder scene in Spokane, but I came up empty.
Earlier this week, inspiration struck. A different angle occurred to me. Using specific keywords, I searched newspapers on NewspaperArchive.com for articles about a man who “murdered” and then suffered “amnesia”. I found one. The article was from a 1975 edition of a Sacramento, California newspaper. The murderer, who gave no name for himself, was described as a transient hippie who had the appearance of being on some kind of drugs, but tested negative for all known drugs. The murderer had wandered into a campground on the outskirts of the city and slaughtered a family of four with his bare hands, then partially devoured some of the remains. He claimed to suffer from amnesia. Next to the newspaper article was a mugshot photograph of the man: bearded, long-haired, shirtless, shoulders draped in stereotypical beaded necklaces…but that face. I pressed my thumb over the beard, and focused on the forehead, eyes, and nose. There was no mistaking it. This man was a twin of Bramwell Lindemann, of Lamar Smith…and of me.
A subsequent issue of the newspaper stated that the hippie killer had been sentenced to 25 years in prison, and had been processed under the temporary name “John Doe,” until his true identity could be ascertained. I contacted the prison and inquired about this John Doe. The institution’s records indicated this man had been released from prison in June of 2000. I requested a copy of the man’s last mug shot, and after much jumping through hoops, finally received it in the mail. John Doe’s last prison mug shot, taken in June of 2000, showed the same man pictured in the 1975 newspaper. He was now clean shaven and had not aged a day. Without the facial hair, he looked even younger than before, if that was possible.
I stared at the photograph. I stared into the mirror. Then back to the photograph. I was looking at a picture not of some random criminal or some ancient ancestor of mine. I was looking at a picture of me, exactly as I looked 14 years ago, at the time of the accident. Exactly as I look right now.
Am I the Sacramento murderer? Am I Lamar Smith? Am I Bramwell Lindemann? If so, then just how goddamn old am I? I had always chalked up my lack of age marks to healthy diet and exercise. What if there is some other power at work? Why can’t I age? What happens to me every 25 years that causes me to commit brutal crimes and then wipe my memory clean? What really transpired before I lost my memory in the year 2000? If I have connected the dots correctly, then what will happen to me in the year 2025? Is my wife safe around me? Do I tell her what I have learned? Am I going crazy?
It seems too surreal to be true, but I have decided I must get to the bottom of this. I must find out where Bramwell Lindemann (where I?) originated. How far can this rabbit hole possibly go? I will keep you updated on what I discover.
Many, many years ago (nine, I believe), I was in college and practicing witchcraft in between writing long papers. I was initially secretive about my interest in magick when I arrived at school, but over the years it became apparent that being a witch was only a very minor oddity on campus, and no one really minded too much.
So, I gradually opened up about it, began giving Tarot readings in exchange for barter or small amounts of cash, and grew willing to discuss magick if asked. There were several other practitioners on campus and a few more amongst the locals, so I was in (mostly) good company. Occasionally, (as usually happens), someone who knew next to nothing about magick would seek me out after hearing I had an interest in it, and ask me to “do a spell” for them.
One such person was a girl I’ll call Amy. We were watching Evangelion or something one night, and the topic came up. She mentioned the abysmal results she was getting from her job search, and asked if I could do a spell to help her find gainful part-time employment while she continued her studies. I told her that, while I myself wouldn’t cast a spell for her, I’d give her information and instructions to do one herself, and help her arrange for the supplies.
She was pretty desperate (college is like that), and was amenable to this, so I explained a simple money spell and gave her the ingredients to make a charm bag. I offered to be there when she cast it, but ultimately she decided to do it alone, so I wished her well and waited to hear about her experience with magick and to see if she would, indeed, get a job.
A few weeks later, she came to me absolutely panicked, looking quite terrified. I asked what was wrong, and she explained that she had received two job offers since casting the spell. I congratulated her, but she still looked terrified, and I couldn’t figure out why. Eventually, she started describing how “spooked” she was by the spell’s results and how she had been “shaking” when she got the job offers by phone because it was all “just so weird and creepy.”
I was pretty flabbergasted by this, and all I could really say was, “Well, aren’t you glad it worked? You got a job…” She shrugged and said something about how the job was great, but it frightened her that “magick does stuff.” She also said that she had resolved to “never do anymore spells” because “it’s just out of hand.” I pressed for more details, asking if something besides the job offers had happened to worry her, but no. This girl literally cast a spell, and then panicked, not because it backfired, but because it worked exactly as intended.
This story would be an interesting curiosity had the same scenario not appeared in my life multiple times over the years, both before and long after this particular incident. Heck, a similar thing happened a few months ago when I coaxed a student into doing his first Tarot reading for another person - he started going on about how “spooky” it was when the reading was accurate, and briefly considered abandoning Tarot altogether.
This sort of thing happens almost formulaically, and seems to be a quasi-regular occurrence regardless of what sort of magick or practice is involved. Someone does a spell, reading, or working or whatever, only to find it successful, at which point panic ensues.
Why? It’s not something I, personally, really understand, but there could be multiple reasons for it. I’m guessing some of these people, taking their first tentative steps into the world of the occult, likely have preexisting worldviews that might conflict with the notion of magick and divination. They attempt these things anyways out of curiosity, and are fairly open-minded compared to most (who’d never dream of doing such a thing).
Yet, when they face success, it’s a serious blow to whatever their initial worldview was, often in a way they couldn’t possibly have anticipated, so there’s a moment of scrambling to rewrite their personal perspective in order to compensate. Another possibility, too, is that at least some of these people are exploring these things not out of any desire for results or knowledge, but for aesthetic and social reasons, and never expected them to work - again, leading to the moment of panic.
To me, as I said, it’s a real puzzler. I’m not going to lie - I did have a “Oh my gosh, this is real?!” moment (several, in fact), early on in my explorations, but I recovered from it much more quickly and it certainly only made me more interested. The thought of quitting my experiments because magick and divination were “too spooky” never occurred to me. I think this is just due to a mundane personality quirk on my part - I’ve always been pretty gung-ho about exploring new things, and good at adapting. Sometimes, that’s a strong suit, as I think it was here, but I do know situations where a more reserved and less fluid worldview would be.
I think we can kind of see it as a bit of a test, though. We all react differently to new information about the nature of reality. Yes, some people panic; others just get curious. It’s just part of the diversity of human thought and perspectives. But recovering from that initial moment of panic or harnessing that curiosity (or whatever other emotion ensues) is absolutely crucial to success in witchcraft, magick, divination, or any kind of occult work. I rarely go around claiming something’s a requirement for practicing magick/witchcraft, but tentatively, I want to say that this is. Why? Well, if you shut down at the first sign that “the spooky stuff” is real, you’re probably not going to end up exploring it further, you’ll be shutting down one avenue of attainment, and you probably won’t have further successes because you won’t even try.
“Keep calm when you succeed!” is thus good advice for any witch or magician, but it’s easier said than done, and I can offer no easy answers. I guess my message to witchlings and budding mages who may be experiencing this would be to, yes, step back from magick for a bit, and explore what about the experience is causing you to react in this way. This naturally means evaluating your own worldview as accurately and carefully as possible, but yes, it can also mean ultimately concluding you don’t know and powering through by continuing to practice. This, of course, only applies if you want to continue magick - there’s no shame in taking up something else, instead.