My sister has a knack for historic detective work. In her free time, she will log on to ancestry.com and trace back our family tree. As a result, she has been able to track down relatives of ours in the United States whose ancestors emigrated there in the early 20th century. She was also able to trace back births and marriages of our family in northern Germany as far as the Middle Ages.
I log on to ancestry.com every once in a while, to see how far she’s gotten. Two years ago, I started writing my current work in progress, a witchy trilogy that spans not only centuries but also countries and continents. While doing research for my witchy story, I found myself looking at our family tree again and stumbling upon one of the names – one of the women in our family tree. Her name was Gesche – which struck me because it’s similar to my own birth name.
Gesche Alheit Rosebrock was born on the 29th of July 1680, during a period when witch persecutions still cast their long shadow across Germany and the whole of Europe.
I can’t help but wonder what kind of woman she would have been. I picture her tall like me, forever visible above the crowd no matter how much she might have wished to blend in. Maybe she enjoyed singing as much as me. Maybe she preferred dogs over cats, too.
Generally speaking, the women in my family have a reputation for being strong-willed, forging their own paths, questioning authority. In fact, the chilling (yet slightly proud) thought occurred to me recently that everything I’m currently doing, the very life I’m living, would have been highly controversial in the Middle Ages.
Indeed, to many people my life choices appear controversial today. I most definitely would have ended up burning at the stake back then. For writing the stories I write, for not having children, for living on the outskirts of society, reading and writing about witchcraft and the occult in a remote cabin where I make my own herbal remedies and talk to animals and trees.
The Women in My Own Lineage
I’d like to imagine that Gesche was a rebel, a defiant woman, a woman who, just like me, celebrated her connection to nature. There is a sadness there, too, when I think of her. I mourn the loss of the knowledge she would have had. What did she know? What did her mother, her grandmothers teach her?
Or maybe she didn’t know as much as I think she knew anymore because, sadly, the reason my sister is able to go as far back in history as she is, is because of the church, which would have been the main entity back then to record deaths, births, and marriages. And the fact that Gesche appears in those church records would suggest that she was part of that system.
But there’s also strength and empowerment in these musings about the women who came before me. I like to wander further back than what the church has recorded, or what I know of the women in my own lineage – what my parents tell me about their mothers, grandmothers, and great—great-grandmothers – all of whom, as far as I can tell, were deeply entrenched in the patriarchy. Strong-willed, for sure, but also hardened by a system that was basically designed to breed soldiers for two world wars. The women in those systems had to be just as relentless, conforming, and oftentimes – stern. I do know that my great-grandmother on my mother’s side was different. In fact, I still remember her fondly – a gentle, kind woman who spent her entire life living in a cosy half-timbered house in a tiny village in Northern Germany.
And I remind myself that history runs deeper than living memory – deeper even than the written word; that there’s something in my genes, in my blood, in my bones that comes from a far older place.
I imagine her moving through her days with caution. By then, local women who still kept their healing knowledge alive had probably learnt to be discreet. Perhaps she grew her herbs in neat rows alongside vegetables, just like my great-grandmother, their medicinal properties disguised as simple cooking ingredients. Gesche would have known which plants to harvest for fever, for childbirth, for easing pain, knowledge passed down in whispers from mother to daughter, always with the warning to be careful who knew what you knew.
By her time, the church and medical authorities had largely taken control of healing practices. Yet in rural areas, women like Gesche would still have been the first resort when children were sick, or births were difficult. She would have walked a careful line – never claiming special knowledge, never stepping too far outside accepted boundaries, yet still serving her community in quiet ways.
I sometimes wonder if I’m remembering… rather than learning.”
When I work with herbs in my own home apothecary today, when I whisper to the trees as I rest beneath them, I sometimes wonder if I’m remembering… rather than learning. If somewhere in my DNA, Gesche’s wisdom still lives, waiting to be awakened.
“What if we could reclaim those stories and become those women again?” asks mythologist and author Sharon Blackie. Her words often echo in my mind as I write my own stories, as I try to understand the old ways.
In her early twenties, Blackie stumbled upon the story of Boudica, the Celtic warrior queen who led an uprising against Roman rule in Britain. This fierce woman who refused to bow to empire became a gateway for Blackie to explore the rich landscape of forgotten feminine power. Today, she writes about Celtic wisdom and the lost beliefs and knowledge of the Divine Feminine across the British Isles, her homeland.
These ancient stories are more important than ever today, because they remind us that there’s another way of being. That there always has been. That what we’re doing when we follow the call of our own wild isn’t learning something new, but rather, remembering something very, very old.
But – How Did The Forgetting Even Start? When Did It Start?
Looking at Gesche’s life makes me wonder: How did we get here? How did we move from a world where women’s knowledge was valued and transmitted through generations, to one where that same knowledge could get you killed?
The rise of patriarchy didn’t happen overnight. While the Roman Empire had its own hierarchical structure, the period following its fall saw a dramatic shift in power dynamics. The early medieval period, particularly from the 5th to the 15th century, witnessed the gradual erosion of women’s rights and status. The Church became increasingly powerful, and with it came a systematic demonization of women’s traditional roles as healers, midwives, and keepers of ancient wisdom.
It’s important to note that this shift wasn’t only about gender, but about power, control, and the reshaping of society. The medieval church, allied with secular authorities, worked to consolidate power by suppressing any alternative forms of spirituality, healing, or knowledge. Women, who often held these alternative practices, became primary targets. According to Blackie, once there were many Gods and especially Goddesses central to Celtic beliefs. But by the time the church was done with their purge, only a single ‘father-god’ was left.
What began as a gradual suppression erupted into full-blown persecution during the witch hunt era, which span roughly from 1450 to 1750 – an incredibly long time, when we really think about it, and a crucial reminder to consider when looking at our own current moment in history. What’s happening to us today is not an isolated event, but a result of a long chain of periods, eras and fallen empires.
During those three centuries from 1450 to 1750, an estimated 40,000 to 60,000 people, mostly women, were executed for witchcraft in Europe and colonial America. Now, if we put this into perspective, those numbers might not appear ‘high’, at least not by our modern standards. According to ‘Our World in Data’ , 62 Million people died in 2024. 7 Million people have died of Covid to date.
The real cost of our loss
But we need to remember that those were very different times indeed. I sat down and tried to do some maths (something I’m not very good at, but please bear with me)
For Europe around 1500-1700, the total population would have been approximately 70-100 million people.
“A systematic attempt to destroy women’s autonomy, knowledge, and power that we can still feel today.”
Let’s take 50,000 as the middle estimate for witch hunt victims.
This would represent roughly 0.05 % of the total population. However, this percentage doesn’t tell the full story because:
- The executions were concentrated in certain regions
- They took place over about 300 years total
- They disproportionately targeted women
- In some communities, the impact was much more severe, up to the point that it would have actually decimated the female population
- The women targeted would have been highly knowledgeable, keystone individuals in their communities – a loss that weighs especially heavy (till this day!)
In some German villages, for example, the persecution was particularly intense. A single wave of witch hunts could kill 5-10% of a town’s female population.
When considering women specifically:
- If roughly 80% of victims were women (40,000 of 50,000)
- And women made up about half the population (35-50 million)
- This means approximately 0.11% of the total female population was executed
And these numbers don’t capture the broader impact of the fear, the suspicion, and the social control that affected a much larger percentage of the population. A systematic attempt to destroy women’s autonomy, knowledge, and power that we can still feel today.
The timing wasn’t coincidental, either. This period coincided with massive social upheaval:
- the Protestant Reformation
- the rise of modern medicine as a male-dominated profession
- the beginnings of capitalism
- the emergence of modern science
Women who carried ancient knowledge and served their communities, became threats to these new power structures.
There is The Woman before the witch hunts and The Woman after them
That fear that followed women like Gesche through her daily life created a split in our collective feminine consciousness. A before and an after. Before the witch hunts, women were the keepers of ancient wisdom, the healers, the midwives, the ones who understood the subtle language of plants and the cycles of nature. They were respected members of their communities, often serving as the primary healthcare providers in rural areas.
The Woman before the witch hunts knew her power. She understood her connection to the land, to the cycles of life and death. She was unafraid to live in harmony with nature, to gather her knowledge through direct experience and observation. She passed her wisdom down through generations, mother to daughter, creating an unbroken line of healing knowledge that stretched back into prehistory. (Just writing this sentence fills me with deep sadness for the severing of that line… oh, to know what they knew…)
The Woman after the witch hunts is different. She has learnt to be careful, to be quiet, to doubt herself. She has internalised the message that her intuition is dangerous, that her connection to nature is suspicious, that her wisdom could get her killed. She has learned to seek external validation, to trust authority over her own knowing, to dim her light rather than risk being seen.
Before I delve deeper into this wound that still shapes us today, I need to acknowledge something important: I’m writing from a Western European perspective, specifically from the viewpoint of someone whose ancestors lived through the witch hunts in Germany. The suppression of women’s power and indigenous wisdom took different forms across the globe. Colonial powers exported their fear of powerful women and their distrust of natural medicine to every continent they invaded. They systematically dismantled matriarchal societies, forced their patriarchal religious views on indigenous peoples, and destroyed countless traditional healing practices (something I hope to explore as I go deeper into my research). The witch hunts were but one chapter in a larger global campaign to separate humans from their connection to nature and traditional wisdom.
What is the Witch Wound?
That same fear that made Gesche look over her shoulder while gathering herbs still lives within us today. We carry it in our bodies, in our nervous systems, in our instinctive reactions. It surfaces when we hesitate to speak our truth in a meeting, when we apologise for taking up space, when we question our own knowing.
The Witch Wound manifests as that knot in your stomach when you stand up to authority. It’s the voice that whispers ‘be careful’ when you start to shine too brightly. It’s the impulse to make yourself small, to blend in, to avoid drawing attention. It’s the fear that grips you when you decide to live differently from the norm, when you choose to trust your intuition over conventional wisdom, when you dare to question established systems.
This wound shows up in how we relate to our own power as well. How many of us hesitate to call ourselves wise, even after decades of experience? How many of us couch our knowledge in ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps’ and ‘I think’? (I think I might be guilty of this…) How many of us feel the need to back up our lived experience with external credentials, as if our own inner knowing isn’t enough?
The Witch Wound is also evident in how women often compete instead of collaborate, how we sometimes undermine each other instead of building each other up. This too is a legacy of the witch hunts, when women were encouraged to accuse each other to save themselves, when community bonds were deliberately broken to maintain control.
But here’s the thing about wounds: they can also be portals to healing. Understanding the source of this fear, recognising it as our collective historical trauma rather than a personal failing, is the first step toward reclaiming our power.
When we understand that our hesitation to speak up isn’t just personal anxiety but a centuries-old survival mechanism, we can begin to dismantle it.
Steps to heal the Witch Wound:
But the witch wound isn’t just a women’s issue. It affects everyone in our society today, regardless of gender. It shows up in how we relate to power, to nature, to our own intuition, and to each other.
Here are some ideas we can continue to heal this ancient wound:
Reclaim Your Connection to Nature
- Start small: Tend to a plant, watch the moon cycles, observe the changing seasons
- Spend time outdoors without a purpose, just being, observing, feeling
- Learn about the plants growing in your area, both wild and cultivated
- Create rituals that help you mark natural cycles and transitions
Learn To Trust Your Inner Knowing
- Practice listening to your intuition in low-stakes situations
- Keep a journal of your intuitive hits and how they play out
- Notice whenever you dismiss your own knowing in favour of external authority
- Start saying ‘I know’ instead of ‘I think’ when you’re certain about something
Heal Your Relationship with Power
- Examine your beliefs about what it means to be powerful
- Notice when you dim your light to make others comfortable
- Practice speaking up for what you believe in, even when your voice shakes
- Support other women without feeling threatened
- Challenge competitive mindsets that pit us against each other
Connect with Your Ancestors
- Research your family history
- Honour your ancestors’ survival skills while choosing new ways of being
- Learn about your cultural traditions and local lore
- Share what you learn with others, especially younger generations
- Ask your ancestors for guidance during meditation
Remember Your Body Wisdom
- Practice feeling and honouring your body’s signals
- Learn about natural healing traditions (while still respecting and consulting modern medicine)
- Move your body in ways that feel good to you
- Connect with your womb space (massages are a great way to do this)
Embrace Your Shadow And Your Flaws
- Examine your fears around standing out or speaking up
- Look at where you might hold internalised misogyny or prejudice
- Notice when you judge others for expressing themselves
- Work with triggers as messengers pointing to what needs healing (jealousy is the most powerful trigger to work with!)
For men specifically, healing the witch wound might involve:
- Examining how patriarchal systems have limited your own emotional expression
- Reconnecting with traditionally ‘feminine’ aspects of yourself
- Supporting other men (and women!) without feeling diminished
- Understanding how ancient wisdom traditions honoured both masculine and feminine energies
Healing the witch wound isn’t linear, and it’s not something we can do alone. Every time we choose to trust ourselves, to speak our truth, to support rather than compete, we help heal this collective wound. Every time we choose connection over separation, wisdom over fear, we help create a world where everyone can shine their light fully.
The witch hunts may have shaped our world, but they don’t have to define our future. In fact, I think we must not allow it.
Resources for this article:
· “A History Of Magic, Witchcraft & The Occult” (DK)
· “If Women Rose Rooted” (Sharon Blackie)
· Ancestry.com
· Sarahjenkins.com
· Ourworldindata.com
· Worldometers.info
Thank you so much for reading this piece. I’d love to hear from you in the comments: Is this the first time you hear of the witch wound or are you familiar with it? Have you maybe realised while reading this article how it manifests in your daily life?
In my next article, I will explore why this all matters and how the destruction of the Sacred Feminine is deeply intertwined with the destruction of nature. And, as always, I try to provide actionable steps towards the end, to leave you feeling empowered.
Hi ♥️, I’m Gisele Stein, author of feel-good novels with a little magic and places like characters, which i craft from my cosy cabin on Wadandi Boodja in Western Australia. Have a look at my books here. I’m also podcasting as The Earthy Writer, to document my rewilding year: Every new moon, I set a new rewilding intention for the month, and every full moon I share my learnings with you…