Baby, I’m from south Louisiana.
We don’t really have the luxury of being not superstitious.
You grow up down here long enough, and superstition quits feeling like some silly backwoods habit and starts feeling more like inherited weather. It’s in the salt tossed over the shoulder. The hush that falls over a kitchen when somebody mentions death before supper. The way folks side-eye a bird flying into the house like it didn’t come alone. The way a dream can sit on your chest all day like a warning wearing your grandma’s perfume.
So am I superstitious?
Yeah. But not in the cartoonish way people mean it.
I don’t think every creak in the floorboards is a demon doing cartwheels, and I’m not out here canceling plans because Mercury stubbed its toe. But I do believe this world talks. I believe patterns matter. I believe some things repeat until they’re acknowledged. I believe energy lingers. I believe places remember. I believe certain gifts run in bloodlines right alongside addiction, anger, charm, and ruin. And I believe pretending not to notice won’t make a thing powerless. It just makes you easier to catch.
That’s the difference.
Some folks hear “superstitious” and think ignorance.
I hear “superstitious” and think survival.
Because when you come from people who had to read the room faster than they could read a book, intuition becomes its own scripture. You learn to pay attention to the dog barking at nothing. To the woman who smiles too hard. To the feeling that tells you not to get in that car, not to trust that deal, not to answer that phone, not to let that person past the front gate. Call it discernment if that makes you feel holier. Call it trauma if that makes you feel smarter. Half the time, those two are cousins anyway.
And let me say this too: superstition gets a bad rap because people confuse it with faith’s drunk uncle.
But they ain’t the same.
Faith, to me, is rooted in God.
Superstition is what happens when human beings try to make sense of mystery with their bare hands.
Sometimes it goes crooked.
Sometimes it goes pagan.
Sometimes it’s just grief wearing costume jewelry.
Still… I understand it.
When life has blindsided you enough, you start looking for signals.
When death has sat at your table often enough, you start noticing drafts.
When love leaves suddenly, you start assigning meaning to songs on the radio, flickering lights, crows on fences, and the clock stopping at the exact wrong time.
Not because you’re stupid.
Because your soul is trying to negotiate with chaos.
That said, I don’t bow to omens.
I notice them.
There’s a difference between respecting mystery and being ruled by it. I’m not giving the devil my car keys because I broke a mirror. I’m not calling my whole week cursed because I spilled salt and a man texted “hey stranger” in the same hour. Some things are spiritual. Some things are just bad decisions wearing symbolism.
And Lord, haven’t I made enough of those to know the difference.
So yes, I’m superstitious in the way swamp people, old preachers, battered women, addicts in recovery, and children with sharp instincts tend to be. I pay attention. I feel shifts. I listen when something in me says, don’t touch that door. I pray over houses. I side-eye generational patterns. I take dreams seriously. I do not mock what I do not fully understand.
But above all that, I trust God more than signs.
Because signs can be misread.
Fear can impersonate wisdom.
And not every shadow means your name is being called.
Sometimes a crow is just a crow.
Sometimes a nightmare is just your nervous system chewing glass.
Sometimes the bad feeling is holy.
Sometimes it’s indigestion.
That’s the work, ain’t it?
Learning which is which.
So, are you superstitious?
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