Married to a Mystic: One Man’s Survival Guide to Rituals, Chaos, and Cursed Espresso Machines

There are exactly three types of people who walk into a metaphysical store, squint through the incense fog, ignore the haunted wind chime, and say, “Cool. But do we have snacks?”

Nate is all three—and somehow, still married to a mystic who collects haunted wind chimes and emotional support crystals.

He’s not a mystic. He doesn’t meditate, couldn’t name his moon sign under duress, and once described my tarot deck as “that fortune-telling flashcard thing.” But Nate is the reason this whole improbable, chaos-laced life of mine works—even when I’m grieving, emotionally duct-taped together, and elbow-deep in a box of mislabelled herbs that may or may not be oregano.

We moved to BriarVeil during what I now refer to as my feral widow era. I was spiritually bankrupt, sleep-deprived, and running on spite and caffeine. Nate—full of his usual over-caffeinated optimism and questionable ideas—looked at a half-collapsed roadside lodge and said, “What if we bought that?”

I stared at him. “For what? Ghost-hunting sleepovers?”

“No,” he said. “A little B&B. You like to cook.”

I do not. I can cook. It’s a hostage situation, not a hobby. Thankfully, the B&B idea derailed faster than our plumbing.

Backcountry Mystic only exists because Nate said, “Sure, why not?” and then built a metaphysical store out of drywall dust, sarcastic encouragement, and a total lack of spiritual training. He’s seen me collapse over spreadsheets, cry over candles, and spend $300 on yarrow root because it was “ethically harvested by moonlight.” And he stayed.

Three plumbing disasters, one squirrel exorcism, and something we now just call The Tea Leaf Debacle later, I bribed him with coffee to answer a few questions.

What It’s Like Being Married to a Mystic (According to Nate)

Everlie: Be honest—did you think I was having a midlife crisis when we moved here?

Nate: Oh, absolutely. But in my defense, your last crisis involved selling “gourmet emergency soup buckets” out of our minivan. This one had a better view. And fewer powdered lentils.

Everlie: But you still said yes.

Nate: You’re the kind of person who tries to turn haunted furniture into heirlooms. I’ve just learned to stand back and wear safety goggles.

Everlie: What’s your actual job at Backcountry Mystic?

Nate: I’m technically Head of Repairs. Unofficially? I reverse minor hexes, mediate between you and your mother, reinstall the door Nova glamoured shut, and replace that wind chime you swear isn’t cursed.

Everlie: It’s not cursed. It’s just… emotionally sensitive.

Nate: Same, babe. But you don’t hang me from the porch.

Everlie: Do you believe in any of this?

Nate: I believe in gravity. I believe in duct tape. I believe that if the lights flicker when you’re mad, we don’t talk about it. Ever since we moved in, the wind chime screams before something breaks, your plants only bloom during full moons, and I’m pretty sure the tree is watching me. So yeah—something’s going on.

Everlie: Weirdest moment so far?

Nate: Top three: The time you tried a “fire cleansing” and roasted my toolbox. That one tarot client who said the blackout was “a message from spirit” (it was a message from Hydro One). And of course, the espresso machine exorcism.

Everlie: Let’s talk about the wind chime.

Nate: Let’s not. That thing rings like a banshee, and every time it does, disaster hits. Nova dumped moon water into the espresso machine once—after it rang. I still don’t know if we summoned something or just made ghost coffee.

Everlie: I told you it’s prophetic.

Nate: You were smug for a week.

Everlie: I was right for a week.

Nate: Same thing.

Everlie: You’re always calm when everything explodes. How?

Nate: Lowered expectations. Pocket snacks. And the knowledge that anything involving our family is going to end in some degree of combustion. I just hope for minor smoke damage.

Everlie: Advice for someone marrying a mystic?

Nate: Invest in a fire extinguisher. Don’t ask follow-up questions when they say they’re “feeling the veil thin.” Nurture their chaos. Love them even when their spiritual breakthrough involves re-alphabetizing the tea shelf by moon phase. And keep snacks in the glovebox. Spiritual emergencies are hungry work.

Store Anecdote: The Moonlight Plumbing Incident

So picture this: I’m outside, full-moon meditation shawl draped over my shoulders, deep in ancestral communion. Candles everywhere. Vibes immaculate.

Then the wind chime shrieks.

CRASH.

Turns out, what I thought was ancestral flow was actually the upstairs plumbing surrendering to gravity. Water cascaded through the ceiling and soaked the entire tarot display like it was a Renaissance-themed water park.

I ran inside, barefoot and vaguely glowing.

Nate—damp, holding a wrench—looked at me and deadpanned, “Maybe your ancestors want you to learn plumbing.”

Spoiler: I did not learn plumbing. But I did learn not to mix moon magic with municipal infrastructure.

Why Nate Matters

There are soulmates. And there are safe harbours.

Nate is both.

He doesn’t try to fix me. He builds around me while I duct tape myself together. He knows when to joke, when to shut up, and when to stand between me and a metaphorical fire. Or an actual one.

He’s the reason I can do this. All of it. He’s chaos-compatible. Mischief-tolerant. Emotionally fireproof.

And that’s the kind of magic you can’t bottle.

Want to Meet Him? Good Luck.

Nate avoids the spotlight like it owes him money. But if you come into Backcountry Mystic and hear someone humming 90s rock while muttering about “the ghost in the fuse box”? That’s him.

Ask if he’s here for a spell or a sandwich. He’ll say, “Why not both?”

Just don’t touch the wind chime.

Do you have a Nate?

Got a Nate in your life? Or maybe you’re married to a mystic (or chaos-adjacent to one)?

Tell me in the comments. Or come by the store—we’ve got warm drinks, weird energy, and a backup fire extinguisher (because of course we do).

Want more behind-the-scenes chaos, character Q&As, and Everlie’s spiritual detours?

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💜 Everlie