Manifest

The Process of Spiritual Awakening In A Digital Age

By: Micah Meyer

It was the summer of 2020, and I was starting to get desperate. All the Instagram posts that had reassured me that the pandemic would magically end had gone up in smoke. I thought the warmer weather and lower COVID cases would mean a reconnection to the girlfriend I hadn’t seen in four months, but instead she broke my heart with a single text. I was unbelievably confused, and for the first time in my life, actually alone.

I think this is something we often miss when talking about the pandemic. We speak of the isolation, the adjustment, the rise and fall of hope. But what I felt in that unbearable grief was a quietness that 21st century life had tried its hardest to make sure I never felt. America, in its late stage of capitalism, is obsessed with things that take it away from itself. But something as ancient as disease forces us to connect with something our ancestors had to deal with every day: our own fragile humanity. That quietness brought something out of many people, hence the term “quarantine glow up.” But because the 21st century is still the 21st century, that isolation was curated and watched over by the most benevolent of deities, the Internet. And this combination, my heartbreak, my isolation, an endless portal hot in my hand—that is how I began my spiritual awakening. 

Like most of the discoveries I have made in my life, this one started out as: “Well I’ll just watch one video!” Witchtok (the Witchcraft/Paganism side of TikTok) compilations had popped up on my YouTube homepage starting in June. I had already been watching a lot of cottagecore videos (content centered around soft fairytale aesthetics), but suddenly the content I was receiving became a lot more… spiritual. This was probably because the algorithm recognized that in terms of aesthetic and focus groups, cottagecore and witchtok content overlapped. They both involve very folksy, simple yet naturalist styles, and I’ve found that those who appreciate the cottagecore aesthetic also tend to be informed on non-traditional spiritual practices. 

Though I never downloaded TikTok, those compilation videos would show up again and again. They were unlike anything I had seen before, and the Internet knew exactly how to fill the void I was beginning to feel in my life. Those people were taking control of their lives, choosing their own spiritual path while I was floundering in my own messy feelings. Every practitioner I saw seemed so cool and confident, like they couldn’t care less about what people thought of them. They looked like they could protect themselves. My low self esteem had led me to love some pretty bad people, the latest being my ex-girlfriend. I had put up with years of abuse by people claiming they cared about me. My last relationship was the breaking point, and this newfound faith was the way out. I learned I could be strong again. 

Now, if this had been a typical “quarantine glow up” story, I would have used those people and those people only to build my definition of Witchcraft, but thankfully I had a second opinion. Bee, a good friend of mine who was a practicing Pagan, was someone who seemed more like me, not those sleek internet witches. I had known Bee for a few years, and I felt comfortable enough to bring up this new interest I had found with them. Their support was what brought the religion out of the Internet and into the real world for me. Here was a real person, who wasn’t in a 1-minute clip with a filter over it, telling me what they knew about religion. And it was because of them, the advice and information I learned from this person who I had a relationship with, that gave me the confidence to start my practice. 

I started using elements you would see on Witchtok like crystals and candles, but I used what was around me and only bought the supplies I didn’t have from second hand stores. It was tempting to collect all the incense, fancy rocks, tarps, and tarot decks that I was seeing online. But I knew that I just wanted these things for their surface level attraction, and my deeper intention was really what mattered. 

Now, I’m not here to tell you that Witchtok is shallow or manipulative. But I am going to say that with Bee and the decision to not scroll constantly, I had more time to sit with these feelings. If I had relied solely on TikTok to inform my religious ideals, I would have had a very fantasized version of the real thing. TikTok, like a lot of modern media, is more concerned with aesthetics than content. It’s about looking at something and knowing what community you have stumbled onto and the exact experience you’re going to get. People like content they can recognize, that snaps them into a place they don’t have to work to get to. At its best, this creates accessible content that gives fringe identities a highway to the main cultural conversation. At its worst, it can showcase a very deep and personal journey as something defined solely by material objects. 

To me, religion is deeply personal, and not something you can translate using a couple of objects or buzzwords to thousands of different people. And while TikTok is an excellent way to introduce or entertain yourself with a new concept, it takes reflection and research to obtain maturity with it. I have continued to use TikTok as a way to inspire my practice and feel community with others, but the most important part of my religion is what I do when I turn off my phone.