My Own Tarot Journey

It is often said, whispered in hushed tones by those who hold the mysteries close to their hearts:

A Tarot deck should not be bought but gifted.

This is the story of my first enchanted deck—a treasure handed to me nearly nine years ago, in 2016, by someone who could only be described as a good witch. Yes, a witch—though not the kind conjured by centuries of European folklore and fear.

You know the one I mean.

The mere word witch still triggers a collective image—a thin, malevolent crone with a twisted grin and a penchant for the sinister. Close your eyes and hear me shout it now: “Witch!” What stirs in your mind? For most, it’s not wisdom, power, or grace. No, someone—or something—with a dark agenda has long trained us to fear those who wield the mystical arts and to revere those who once burned them at the stake.

But the witch who gifted me this deck was no villain from a fairy tale. She was luminous, a bearer of light, with a unique way of weaving magic that left no room for fear. Her voice was her wand, her words the spell. Each sound was deliberate, each syllable an energetic wave that seemed to settle into the very atmosphere around her.

The deck she placed in my hands was` one she had never used—a curious truth considering its enchantment. A deeply buried intuition had whispered to her that it wasn’t truly hers to keep.

One day, she invited me into her sacred space, a sanctuary brimming with the kind of energy that makes the air itself hum. She motioned for me to sit, her demeanor shifting to something solemn.

Her eyes closed, and a strange murmur began to spill from her lips—a soft, almost musical cadence of syllables that made no logical sense but stirred something in me I couldn’t name. Even though I felt the vibration ripple through my aura, i had an unfamiliar sensation that made my skepticism tug at the corners of my mouth.

I almost laughed. Almost.

Minutes later, she rose abruptly, crossing the room with purpose. From an old wooden chest—ancient and wise, like it had secrets of its own—she retrieved a tarot deck, still wrapped in pristine packaging.

She cradled it with reverence, as though holding a newborn child, and handed it to me. Her eyes met mine, deep and searching.

“This is what I was told to do”, she said, her voice carrying the weight of ritual.

Surprised and unsure, I murmured, “May it be received,” as though my tongue had remembered a ceremony my mind did not know.

What she sought in my eyes at that moment—validation, perhaps—was something I couldn’t yet offer. I had no idea what I was holding or how this deck would shape the years that followed. But deep down, I sensed this was no ordinary gift.

What would have been the saddest fate for those cards? To lose them? No. Far worse would have been to leave them forgotten, collecting dust in some lonely storeroom.

Today, I still hold that same deck—the very cards she entrusted to me. They’ve aged with me, their edges frayed and their faces kissed by the faint touch of mold. They carry the scent of old paper and something else—something that lingers between the tangible and the mystical. Even at a distance, they hum with the energy of stories untold, their enchantment undimmed.

Over the years, this deck has been my companion in more than 1,000 readings. It has guided me through the creation of a book, illuminated countless lives, and, more often than not, sparked laughter. And yet, it has also whispered truths so chilling that they could raise the hairs on the back of your neck.

But I’ll save those stories for later…

P.S. Don’t worry, dear seeker. If you journey with me through the Mentorship levels, I will ensure that you, too, hold such a deck in your hands. What magic it carries next—well, that is a tale only you can tell.

EXERCISE:

• Leave a comment about your Tarot journey. Share with us the magick! How the deck found you? Where have you heard about divination for the first time?