Built to Stay - The Origin Story

Why I stopped waiting to be saved.

I didn’t start this brand because life was easy. I started it because I know what it feels like to sit at the bottom of the well — waiting, longing, aching for someone to come save me.

And life — heartbreak — taught me the hardest and holiest thing I’ve ever learned: no one else is coming.

Built to Stay is what happens when you decide to be the rope. To save yourself. To build a life from what broke you. To turn grief into ritual. Loneliness into power. Survival into magic.

Everything here is made with that kind of love — the stay-with-yourself kind. The I’m-not-leaving-me-again kind.

I built this idea the same way I built myself — from the bottom of the well up.

For most of my life, I waited to be rescued. By love. By friendship. By someone who would stay.

But life taught me the hardest truth: no one else is coming. And maybe that’s not tragedy — maybe that’s freedom.

This is a space for the ones still climbing. The ones learning to become their own rope. The ones rebuilding piece by piece — tender, strong, messy, magical.

This is magic for rebuilding yourself. For grounding. For remembering. For staying — not for anyone else — but for you.

You are still here. You are still rising. You are Built to Stay.

No One Was Coming

How I became the one I was waiting for.

No one was coming. Not when the screams were silent. Not when the air turned to stone and I swallowed every sob like it might make me easier to love.

I waited with open hands. I waited in dresses soaked with apology. I waited at the bottom of the well until I forgot the sound of my own name.

And still— no rope. No voice. No rescue.

Just the echo of "be smaller." Be softer. Be less.

I carved tally marks into the dark. I braided hope from spiderwebs. I whispered spells into the dirt and called it prayer.

I thought if I could be good enough, quiet enough, forgiving enough— someone would come.

But no one came.

And one day, through the silence, I heard something else.

Me. Calling from somewhere deeper. Not weaker—wiser. Not broken—becoming.

I was the rope. I was the hands. I was the storm and the shelter.

So I rose. Feral. Flawed. Free.

With scraped knees and eyes that had seen too much. With shaking fists and a heart that still chose light.

I climbed out. Not because someone pulled me— but because I decided I was worth rising for.

No one was coming. So I came. And I am still coming for every piece of me that ever thought I had to wait to be saved.

I’m not waiting anymore. I’m built to stay.

Stone by Stone

I am the ruin.

I am the architect.

I am the hands gathering gravel from my hollowed-out chest stone by stone, lesson by lesson, love by love.

This heart— it broke but it did not die.

It waits now to be rebuilt not as it was but as it was always meant to be— stronger, stranger, wiser, beautiful, not in spite of the cracks but because of them.

This body— it carries echoes not burdens.

Memories, not chains.

I am allowed to miss what shaped me without inviting it back into my bones.

I pour truth over what remains.

I sift illusion from memory.

I gather myself not to become smaller— but to rise wilder.

I release. I rebuild. I remember.

I am not waiting to be chosen anymore.

I am the builder.

I am the home.

I am the whole damn cathedral.

You are the Magic

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This isn’t about spellwork — It’s about self-return.


Why you don’t have to be a witch to make magic that matters

When people hear that I make spell jars or ritual candles, I can see the assumptions wash over their face — even if they don’t say it out loud. Some people imagine potions and black cats. Others think it’s anti-religious or too “woo woo” for them. And then there are those who think it’s just cute, trendy, aesthetic.

None of those things are what this is really about.

My first real spell jar wasn’t even mine. It was a gift — a tiny, thoughtful fertility jar my sister-in-law gave me when we were deep in the storm of infertility. I placed it next to my bed, not thinking much of it — and that was the month we finally got pregnant.

Now, I’m not saying the jar made it happen. But it held my intention. It reminded me every day that something sacred was possible. That I was allowed to hope.

That’s what spell jars became for me: tiny containers of hope.

I wasn’t practicing witchcraft. I was practicing self-trust.

And you don’t have to be a witch to want clarity. You don’t have to read tarot or practice paganism to feel overwhelmed, stuck, or disconnected. You don’t have to worship the moon to want peace. You just have to want more for yourself. You just have to want to feel something again.

And that is more than enough.

Spellwork — for me — is about intention.

It’s about choosing to pause in a world that demands speed. It’s about saying, “This is what I need,” and honoring it in a tangible way. It’s about connecting to the version of me that knows what she wants — and finally listens.

Lighting a candle with a handwritten prayer? That’s spellwork.

Tucking dried flowers and herbs into a jar while whispering your hopes to the universe? That’s spellwork.

Looking up at the eclipse and asking it to show you the truth? Also spellwork.

But so is crying.

So is making a boundary.

So is learning to tell the truth, even when it makes people uncomfortable.

The real magic is in the intention behind the action.

The jars, the herbs, the rituals — they’re just anchors.

What changes your life is you.

The version of you that stops abandoning herself. That lights a candle and means it. That speaks her needs, even when her voice shakes.

And listen — you can believe in Jesus and still set intentions. You can believe in nothing at all and still find comfort in lighting a candle before a hard conversation. You can believe in science and therapy and still carry a crystal in your pocket like a tiny love note to your nervous system.

You don’t have to pick a box. You don’t have to make it make sense to anyone but you.

So if the word “spell” feels too loaded, change it. Call it an intention jar. Call it a hope candle. Call it your “emotional first aid kit.” Call it whatever you need to.

This isn’t about labels. This is about liberation.

Your ritual can be:

• Crying into a spell candle at midnight because you’re finally letting yourself feel

• Stirring your morning coffee with intention and asking the day to be gentle

• Taking a walk barefoot in your backyard while whispering to the version of you that’s becoming

You don’t need to “believe” in spells to use them. You just need to believe in you.

Because this isn’t about spellwork. It’s about self-return.

— Kristin Holloway

April 17, 2025

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Extra Magic

You don’t have to follow a path to find yourself. You just have to stop running from the truth that’s already inside you.

Journal Prompt: What does sacred mean to me — and how might I reclaim that word in my own way?