When Your Light Makes You a Target — A Hoodoo Warning About Beauty, Jealousy, and Spiritual Protection
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My grandmother was a quiet woman. Dark cherry skin, long beautiful black hair, large and mysterious eyes. When the sun caught the red undertone of her skin as she walked into that small southern town, people took notice — whether they meant to or not.
My grandfather was a handsome man. His skin a beautiful golden hue, kissed by the sun from years of working outside. He built my grandmother a little home on a small strip of land in that town. He was traditional in the best sense — shaped by the women who raised him, women who were deeply dedicated to their family's lineage and committed to protecting it. Women who worked their power quietly, intentionally, ensuring the success of the family line.
Many in town did not care for my family. The usual small town whisper: "They think they're better than everyone." What that really meant was: they don't let you into their business, and it bothers people who expect access they were never owed.
But back to my grandmother — beautiful Addie Mae, sweet like her name. And I don't call her beautiful simply because she was mine. Others recognized it too. That is the dangerous thing about beauty and glamour: it can unintentionally attract the attention of predators and darkness.
My grandmother and grandfather loved each other, from what I was told. But a man took a liking to Addie Mae — decided she should belong to him. She shut down his advances without a second thought. He was angry. She brushed it off and thought nothing more of him.
What he didn't understand was who he was moving against. My grandfather came from a family of female workers — women who did not play about their baby brother. He was well protected. My great-aunt and great-great-grandmother had already worked their power for the protection of the line.
Then across the street, a woman moved in. She had come from somewhere in Louisiana — relocated herself and her son to South Carolina. She laid eyes on Son Smith and wanted him for herself. Just as my grandmother had done with the unwanted suitor, my grandfather turned this woman down.
And that is where things got dangerous.
Some folks conjure for protection. Some do work to make things go their way. And some are just downright dark and nasty. I see this play out on social media today — people speaking on Hoodoo, leading with ego, not light. They are not in the practice to uplift anyone or anything but themselves. They lack the self-love and confidence needed to be a true worker of power. Those are the dangerous ones. Not everyone doing work intends to help you. Some are there to draw from you, drain you, attach themselves to what you carry.
Now let me get back to the woman across the street.
Reola , that is what we will call her , had tried her hand at my grandfather first. Whatever she attempted, it did not take. The protection for him was too strong from the elders of the bloodline, and his sisters. So Reola did what strategic darkness often does when it cannot go through the front: she found a side door. Harold , the man who had already been rejected by my grandmother , came to Reola with a proposition. Two rejections. Two wounded egos. One shared target.
They joined their 'power' with a single purpose: to drive my grandparents apart.
And yes before we go further I need to say this plainly: men conjure. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. That is a whole separate conversation, but it needs to be named. Harold is proof enough. I will need to research him more and tell his story later.
My grandfather worked constantly. He was a provider down to his bones and when my mother was born, that drive only deepened. He was building something. A life. A legacy. A family rooted in love on that little strip of land. The spirit of jealousy hates to see light multiply and grow, it can not understand happiness that it can not have, instead of looking inward, it only sees what it perceives as something that should be theirs.
My grandmother, unaware of Reola's true face did what a good-natured woman does — she accepted friendship when it was offered. She did not see the world through the lens of cruelty, because cruelty was not in her. And that is the very thing that left the door open. When you do not operate in darkness, you sometimes cannot immediately perceive it standing right in front of you, smiling, holding a plate of food.
Reola would cross that street regularly. She had baked something, she had cooked something — would Addie Mae like some? And of course my grandmother, sweet like her name, received it graciously and gave back in return. She thought this woman was a friend. That is who she was. That exchange — that quiet, ordinary ritual of neighborly kindness — became the vessel.
After a while, my grandmother began having episodes. She was not herself. Her spirit had been invaded by something that did not belong there. Physically, she was still as beautiful as ever — but something behind her eyes had shifted. Something had moved in that was not her.
My grandfather traveled for work. And strangely significantly , when he returned home, her episodes would quiet. His presence, his protection, his energy in that space would temporarily calm what had taken root in her. But he could not be there always. He had a family to provide for.
It was one neighbor , one person in that small town acting out of genuine concern rather than entertainment — who finally told my grandfather what had been happening in his absence. Because let us be honest: too many of those townspeople found my grandmother's behavior something to talk about, something to watch. Not everyone who witnesses your pain is moved by it.
My grandfather contacted his sisters immediately. And Great-Aunt Hester came.
Aunt Hester was not one to take any mess. She had been trained by the women before her she carried that knowledge in her hands, in her eyes, in the way she moved through a room. She took one look at my grandmother and knew. She had been poisoned. The work had been laid in slowly, patiently, over time — delivered through food and fellowship and the ordinary trust of a woman who saw no reason not to trust.
This is why root work is called root work. It is not always loud or sudden. Sometimes it is planted like a seed, fed incrementally, allowed to grow in the dark until it has wound itself around something vital. By the time the symptoms are visible, the roots have already gone deep. Discernment — early, quiet, consistent discernment — is protection. What feels like paranoia is often your spirit recognizing something your conscious mind hasn't named yet.
The damage had been done too long. My grandmother was never the same again.
I do not know — or cannot recall — what became of Harold. But Aunt Hester understood something that those who want immediate revenge often do not: work can be a long game. Some people want fire right now. They want to see results in a week, in a month. But real power moves in its own time, and justice — true justice — does not always announce itself before it arrives.
Years later, when Reola passed, it was said her screams could be heard throughout the neighborhood. Not the quiet passing of a woman going gently home. Something terrifying came for her spirit. And when her son passed not long after, the same was said of him.
My grandmother, whose mind was never fully returned to her in this life — she went peacefully. She transitioned to the ancestor realm the way she had always moved through this world: quietly, with beauty, and with her light intact.
