Patchouli People

You know exactly who I’m talking about. The ones in baggy patchwork pants with a constellation of facial piercings. They smell like sage, weed, and dusty books. You’ll find them flocking to farmers markets, hiding their unwashed hair under oversized felt hats, buying overpriced organic veggies they can’t afford because the rent on their share house is triple their Centrelink payment. But don’t worry—the chunk of amethyst hanging around their neck is healing their throat chakra, right? Unblocking that pineal gland so they can manifest a new life through vibes alone. Faith in the universe and a handful of moonwater, and voilà—they’ll have it all.

I get it. I used to be one of them. Well, kind of. I drank the crystal-infused Kool-Aid for a long time. I lit incense, smoke-cleansed my house, wrote down my manifestations like my life depended on it, and begged the universe for signs. But I never wore the patchwork pants. That’s where I drew the line.

The truth is, deep down, I never really believed a chunk of rock could fix my life—but it gave me something to hold on to when everything felt like it was falling apart. Like my very wise sister once said, I was just filling a void. And now that I’ve finally made the big, scary, necessary changes I was avoiding, I can admit—she was probably right.

We throw the word manifestation around a lot these days. We don’t “hope” anymore. We say it will happen. It already has happened, because we’re manifesting it. And honestly, there’s truth in that mindset. But here’s the missing ingredient: action.

You can’t just wish your desires into existence. You can’t whisper them to the moon and expect them to appear in your lap. You have to do something about it. Light all the sage you want, chug moon water like it’s kombucha, but none of that is going to get you the guy, the job, or the dream body. The only thing that gets you those things? You. Doing the work.

I tried every manifestation method I could find, all in the hopes that my ex would one day bring up the fact our marriage was circling the drain. The idea of me initiating that conversation? Terrifying. I don’t do well with feelings. I’m more of a cry-until-I-suffocate-on-my-own-snot kind of person. Not exactly eloquent.

But guess what? Sky Daddy didn’t come save me. I did. I put on my big girl pants—again, not the patchouli kind—and I had the conversation. I cried, he cried, everyone cried. It was painful. But it was necessary.

Avoiding it doesn’t work. Hoping someone else will do it for you doesn’t work. The second nose piercing might feel like a step in the right direction, but it’s not going to sort your life out. Neither will a pixie cut. It’s dramatic, sure, but not transformative in the way you actually need. And when that initial burst of “I’ve changed!” energy wears off, you’ll be back on the floor with your sage, whispering affirmations into the void, wondering why nothing got better.

I tend to lean on hoping and wishing when life feels uncertain. It’s easier to tell myself the universe has “bigger plans” for me than to face the reality that maybe nothing happened because I didn’t make it happen. Some things genuinely aren’t meant for us—and that’s okay—but you’re still better off taking steps toward your goal than sitting on your couch stroking a rose quartz under the full moon.

No amount of tarot readings can predict your future. The real magic? You. You get to decide how this story goes.

Want the guy? Show up for him. Not from a place of desperation, but from a place of genuine care. Set boundaries, be clear, but don’t sit around hoping he’ll text first. Text him. Call him. Let him see how much you care—then let him decide what he wants to do with that.

Want the job? Stop pasting pictures on your vision board and apply for it. Apply for all of them. Fix your resume. Build your skills. No one’s going to magically find you and hand you your dream career. You have to show them who you are.

Dream body? That’s on the other side of consistency. Of daily effort. You don’t need to weigh your food like it’s a science experiment, but you do need to stop sitting on the couch with a family box of KFC crying about your life while watching fitness influencers on TikTok. That girl weighing out her pasta? She might be onto something.

And for the love of all that is holy, stop buying natural deodorant. It doesn’t work. You don’t smell “earthy.” You smell bad. The aluminum in your antiperspirant isn’t blocking your manifestations. Neither is fluoride. What is blocking your manifestations? You.

You and your inaction.

Surrounding yourself with like-minded patchouli people won’t save you either. You can all chant and cleanse and vibe together until your linen robes and cheesecloth dresses drag you down like anchors on a sinking ship. Collective inaction is still inaction.

If you want your life to change, you have to do something. You are the magic. You are the solution. So get out of your own damn way.