About Mama Satela

I was raised in a village where the forests were dance and dark, where the trees whispered in languages older than names, and the rivers carried memory through the land like a spell that never broke. The wind carried messages, and the fields kept their silence like a guarded secret.

 

Magic wasn’t something we learned—it was in the blood, in the breath, in the way my grandmother salted the windowsill without a word. The veil between worlds was not a myth. It was the ground we walked on.

 

I did not learn my craft from books—I was born into it. My earliest memories are filled with the smell of damp earth, the moss on old trees, the songs of field crickets, and the constant presence of the unseen. In my family, magic was a way of life—my great‑grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother all helped people through spiritual work, passing down the knowledge of healing, protection, and ritual as naturally as breathing.

 

When people see me—a white woman—they sometimes question what I am doing in Vodou. The answer is simple: I chose it because it felt like home. Not out of fashion or fascination, but from recognition. I was raised by women who passed down their knowledge not as a system, but as a way of life. They taught me to honor my ancestors, to live in rhythm with spirit, death, and breath.

 

When I encountered Vodou, I didn’t feel like I had found something new—I felt a resonance. Its rhythm reminded me of my grandmothers. Its reverence mirrored the truths I was already raised in. I didn’t turn to Vodou to replace my roots, but to deepen my walk with spirit while away from the land that formed me.

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