🧶Module 2: The History of Knot Magic Across Cultures | Knot Magic Course
Updated: Sep 23
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🧶Module 2: The History of Knot Magic Across Cultures
Your String Has Ancestors
The knot you tied last week has relatives on nearly every inhabited continent, and some of them are very old. Cord itself is older than writing, and knotted charms turn up across an astonishing range of cultures, some connected by trade and travel, others reaching the same idea entirely on their own, because hands holding string tend to arrive at the same discovery: a knot holds, and holding is what half of all magic wants done. One caution before the tour begins, and it is the caution this whole lesson is built to teach. Relatives here means family resemblance, not always a documented bloodline. Two cultures can invent the same knot without ever meeting, and a resemblance between practices is a lovely thing to notice, not proof that one taught the other.
Knot magic in modern spaces often presents itself as generic, a universal practice with no particular home, freely available to anyone holding string. The reality is more specific and much more interesting. What we call knot magic is a family of distinct traditions, each with its own cultural ground, its own logic, its own period of flourishing. Some have been shared openly for centuries. Some belong to specific peoples on those peoples’ own terms. This lesson tours the documented branches of the family, teaches you how doors work, and ends by handing you a skill most courses never teach: how to check a historical claim before you build your practice on it. The map comes before the territory.
How to Read Old Evidence
Before the tour, a small skill that makes every stop richer: not all evidence answers the same question. An object that survives proves something existed, though its purpose may be lost; you will meet a famous cord shortly whose purpose is still argued about. A ritual text prescribes a method someone actually wrote down, which is the closest history comes to a recipe card. A story or poem proves an idea lived in the imagination of its audience, which is real evidence of a real kind, just not evidence that anyone performed the scene. And a folklore record proves that a collector reported a practice, which tells you someone said it happened, one step removed from watching it happen. A primary source is the earliest surviving account of a thing, the document closest to the event itself, and the closer you can get to one, the firmer your ground.
Four more words, defined now because this lesson leans on them. Folklore is the traditional belief and practice of ordinary people, passed along outside official channels. An oral tradition is knowledge carried by memory and telling rather than by writing, and it is genuine transmission, harder to date but no less real for that. A revival is the deliberate return of a practice that lapsed, built from records of the earlier form. A reconstruction is a practice rebuilt from fragments when the whole was never recorded. Modern witchcraft does plenty of both, and this lesson will show you exactly why that is nothing to apologize for.
Open Doors, Closed Doors, and Doors Ajar
Two working terms, defined plainly, because they organize everything that follows. An open practice is one whose tradition permits anyone willing to learn it respectfully; everything this course teaches is open. A closed practice belongs to a specific people or initiatory lineage, and here is the part cruder versions of this teaching get wrong: closed does not describe one kind of locked door. Access to a tradition is decided by the community that holds it, and communities decide differently. Some teachings are shared publicly with anyone. Some come only by initiation, invitation, or family line.
Some communities welcome outsiders into certain rooms of the house while keeping other rooms for their own, and the terms can change, because living traditions are alive. The key is always in the community’s hand, never in ours, and never in this course’s.
Why does a beginner course lead with this? Because the witch who understands whose practice she is holding credits her sources honestly and practices with integrity, and because the open rooms of knot magic are vast, ancient, and more than any one lifetime can use up. Knowing where your feet are is not a restriction on the craft. It is part of the craft.
The Oldest Layer: Egypt
Ancient Egypt gives us one of the earliest knots we can still look at. The tyet, often called the knot of Isis, is a symbol shaped like a tied loop of cloth or cord, and honesty requires the first admission of the lesson: its earliest meaning is unknown. What is documented is what it became: an emblem of the goddess Isis and her protective power, frequently carved in red stone the color of blood and life.
One more word defined before we use it: an amulet is a small object carried or worn for protection. Tyet amulets were placed on the bodies of the dead to protect them on the journey into the afterlife, and whatever the symbol first meant, Egyptians treated the image of a knot as carrying a knot’s power. Hold that move in mind, because it recurs across this whole craft: the picture of the knot can do the knot’s work.
And Egyptian knot magic was never only funerary. An inscription among the Pyramid Texts, the oldest large body of religious writing on earth, says that Isis and Nephthys work their magic with knotted cords. Surviving spell papyri get wonderfully specific: one remedy against head pain, framed as the god Horus’s own headache, is to be spoken over seven threads taken from the hem of a garment, tied into seven knots, and placed on the sufferer’s left foot. Another medical papyrus has words recited while knots are tied into a bandage. Thousands of years before your Cord Book existed, someone by the Nile was counting knots and speaking over each one, and you will recognize the shape of that instantly.
Greece and Rome: Binding Threads
The classical Mediterranean wrote its magic down. The Greek Magical Papyri sound like one dusty book, so let the name be defined properly: papyri are documents written on papyrus, the paper of the ancient world, and the Greek Magical Papyri are a modern scholars’ collection of surviving ritual handbooks, written mostly in Greek, recovered mostly from Egypt, and spanning roughly the second century before the common era to the fifth century after. They are working magicians’ manuals from the Greco-Roman world, and instructions involving threads, cords, and tying appear among their spells, which is recipe-card evidence, the strongest kind this lesson has to offer.
The poets knew the material too. The Roman poet Virgil, in his Eighth Eclogue, gives a lovesick speaker a working: three knots tied in threads of three colors to bind a beloved. It is a scene in a poem, not a report from a ceremony, so read it for what a poem proves: the motif was familiar enough for Roman poetry to use without explanation, the way a song today can mention lighting a candle for someone and trust the audience to understand. It is also, note in passing, a binding aimed at another person’s heart, exactly the kind of working the ethics lesson ahead will teach this course’s witches to refuse.
Greek myth contributes the oldest famous story of contained weather. In the Odyssey, Aeolus, keeper of the winds, gives Odysseus the storm winds tied up in a leather bag, bound shut with a shining silver cord, leaving only the fair wind free to carry him home. Within sight of his own island, his crew opens the bag hunting for treasure, and the released winds blow the ship all the way back. A myth, not a spell; nobody’s grimoire is hiding in Homer. But keep the image in your pocket, winds held by a tied cord and loosed by an unwise untying, because it comes back within the hour. And since we are among legends: the Gordian knot of Phrygia, whose untier was promised the rule of Asia, and which Alexander the Great, depending on the teller, either solved or simply cut. Not spellwork either, just proof of how much power the ancient imagination packed into a tangle: whole empires, waiting inside a knot.
The Near East: Knots Taken Seriously
Jewish tradition preserves knot magic in the best possible place: a legal text ruling on everyday life. The Talmud, the great compendium of Jewish law and discussion, records in tractate Shabbat that young boys may go out on the Sabbath wearing kesharim, knots, as a folk remedy, and the discussion identifies them as garlands of the madder plant tied for their healing power. Then comes the detail this course cannot resist. The sage Abaye reports what the woman who raised him taught: three knots hold an illness where it is, five knots heal it, and seven are effective even against sorcery, and knots tied for healing are tied on the left. A graded count of knots, each number doing different work, recorded in a foster mother’s kitchen wisdom eighteen centuries ago. When the numerical lesson ahead teaches you counted workings, remember her. And notice what kind of evidence this is: a legal text preserves a practice simply by ruling on it, whatever the ruling. Protective thread and knot work has continued in Jewish folk practice, particularly in Sephardic and Mizrahi communities, into the present day.
The Quran preserves knot magic from the other direction. One of its final chapters seeks refuge from the evil of those who blow on knots, breathing spells into cord. A scripture warning against a practice is still preserving it; condemnation is evidence too, of a distinct and useful flavor, because nobody warns against what nobody does. And the practice named there has living descendants: in Egypt within living memory, a wool cord of seven knots, blown over as it is tied, has been used against fever, the very gesture the old verse names, still moving through hands.
The North: Fate-Threads and Wind-Sellers
Norse tradition imagined destiny as fiber. The Norns, the great powers who shape fate, appear in Norse poetry working it as thread: at the birth of the hero Helgi, they twist and fasten the cords of his destiny, anchoring them across the land. The tidy job description you may have heard, one spins, one measures, one cuts, actually belongs to the Fates of Greek myth and has a habit of wandering north in retellings; the Norse poems give something less tidy and more interesting. Among the human practitioners, a völva was a Norse seeress, a worker of the magic called seiðr, concerned with seeing and shaping what was coming, and fate-as-thread was the world her work lived in.
Out of the northern world comes the most famous knot-magic transaction in the record: the wind-sellers. A fourteenth-century English chronicle, Ranulf Higden’s Polychronicon, reports that on the Isle of Man, wind was sold to sailors tied up in three knots of thread. Two centuries later, Olaus Magnus’s Description of the Northern Peoples, printed in 1555, describes wind-sellers among the Finns and gives the famous grading: loose the first knot for mild winds, the second for stronger, the third for storms no sensible captain ever asks for, which is why the third knot’s real job, as this course reads the story, was to stay tied. Note that these are separate reports of similar practices, Manx and Finnish, not one guild with branch offices, and note what the chronicles actually prove: that the accounts were recorded and the belief was real, which for folklore is the honest gold standard. Folklore collectors in Shetland and Orkney were still writing down wind-knot lore within recent centuries, close enough to touch.
One honest trim while we are here: the internet loves Viking sea witches, and the colorful versions grow more cinematic every year. What the documents give us is plenty. And notice the mechanism, because you know it from your first lesson: these cords were tied to store and untied to release, the cord as a battery, Aeolus’s bag with a price tag on it, exactly the operation your own hands will practice before this lesson ends.
England, 1878: The Attic That Named a Practice
Now the most famous object in all of knot magic, and a story with more twists than most courses tell. Around 1878 or 1879, workmen demolishing an old house in Wellington, Somerset, broke into a roof space and found six brooms, an old chair, and a five-foot cord threaded along its length with cock’s feathers. The workmen named the find on the spot: the chair was for witches to rest in, the brooms to ride, and the cord was a witches’ ladder for climbing across the roof. The detail that the house had belonged to an old woman reputed a witch comes from a note sent along decades later, when the object was donated to a museum, and the museum itself calls that note unreliable. Notice how the story is already growing in the telling; that growth is tonight’s real subject.
The find reached the scholars. Dr Abraham Colles wrote it up in The Folk-Lore Journal in 1887, and the great anthropologist Edward Burnett Tylor presented the cord that same September to a scientific meeting in Manchester, where the story takes its first wonderful turn: two members of the audience stood up and declared the sacred relic a sewel, an ordinary feathered cord a hunter holds in the hand to turn back deer. The folklorists argued in journal letters for months. Frazer suggested it was for charming away neighbors’ milk, citing Scottish and German traditions; Charles Leland wrote in from Tuscany comparing it to an Italian witch’s feathered garland used for cursing; the sewel camp held for deer. A local woman herself reputed a witch, asked about it later, offered the deadliest verdict of all: it was probably a string of feathers for scaring birds off a row of peas. Tylor, who wanted the magical explanation to be true, admitted years afterward that he had never found solid corroboration that the thing was ever used for magic. The cord sits today in the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, still keeping its secret.
Then the twist inside the twist, and it is the best claims-vetting specimen this course will ever hand you. In 1893 the folklorist Sabine Baring-Gould published a novel featuring a witch-ladder of black wool and feathers, sunk in a pool so that as the water rotted the ties, the ill-wishes worked into it would escape, one by one, rising as bubbles. Vivid, specific, and it reads like recovered folklore. Tylor wrote to ask his source, and Baring-Gould answered with a confession scholars still quote: the sinking and the release were, in his words, pure invention of my own; he felt the ill-wishes must be got out somehow, and so he created a fashion for liberating them. There it is in one letter: a plausible ritual detail, invented by a novelist to solve a plot problem, dressed so convincingly as tradition that it could have entered the tradition. Some almost certainly have, from other pens, without the confession.
Here is what all of it means for the witch’s ladder you will build later in this course, and this teaching is given once, so take it whole. The museum’s own researchers note that no other old witches’ ladder has ever been recorded, and that much of the modern ladder tradition may descend from this single attic find, carried into the twentieth-century revival by writers who knew the folklore journals well.
Does that weaken your ladder? Not in the slightest. A practice reconstructed honestly on old bones is a real practice, and the ladder’s bones, knotted cord, woven charms, sustained intention, run through everything else in this lesson. What the attic story kills is only the claim of an unbroken thousand-year chain. The object is real, the argument was real, the modern practice is real, and now you know exactly how the three connect, which is more than most people teaching the ladder can say.
Handfasting: The Promise at the Wrists
The word handfasting descends from the Old Norse handfesta, to strike a bargain by joining hands, and the historical custom is just what the word says. In Scotland and northern England, handfasting was a betrothal and marriage custom sealed by clasped hands and spoken vows; the records give us the joined hands, not a cord around them. The wrapped cord, a couple’s joined hands bound in ribbon or cords whose colors each carry a meaning, is the modern ceremony’s contribution, a revival-era form built on the old custom’s name and gesture, and by now you can hear how this course says that: as a compliment, not an exposure. Whether the everyday phrase tying the knot descends from handfasting is itself a claim your new checklist would flag: charming, plausible, and unproven. The full ceremony craft waits in its own lesson later in this course.
The Endless Knot and the Red Thread
Asia holds some of the deepest living cord traditions on earth, and they deserve to be introduced as what they are rather than blurred into one. The endless knot, a closed weave with no beginning and no end, is one of the Eight Auspicious Symbols of Buddhist tradition, representing the endless interlinking of things, and it belongs to Buddhist cultures broadly, honored across Tibet, India, China, and beyond. Chinese decorative knotting is its own celebrated craft, a knotwork art shared freely around the world. And Chinese tradition gives the world one of its most beloved cord images: the red thread of fate, tied by Yue Lao, the old matchmaker of folklore and living devotion alike, whose temples still receive petitioners today, joining two people destined for each other with a thread that may stretch and tangle but does not break. Red knotted cords for luck, protection, and love remain everyday practice in Chinese communities right now. The care these deserve is the care this whole lesson teaches: admire freely, credit accurately, and treat living devotional practice as belonging to the people living it.
Rooms Entered by Invitation
Two entries belong on the map precisely because a witchcraft course should know what they are and what they are not. The khipu, also spelled quipu, is the knotted-cord recording technology of the Inca and other Andean peoples: cords whose knots held numbers, census records, accounts, and possibly narrative, with ritual dimensions in some contexts, and with Andean communities keeping khipu knowledge alive today. It is a knowledge system, not a spell format, and respect here is specific: Andean institutions themselves teach khipu-making as heritage, so the door is not sealed to learning, but learning someone’s archive is not the same as dressing it up as our magic. A witch does not borrow the khipu for spellwork for the same reason she does not cast with someone else’s family Bible.
The same case-by-case care governs Indigenous ceremonial cord and knot traditions across the Americas: many distinct peoples, each the sole authority on its own practices, some shared publicly, many held within the community. There is no honest continent-wide ruling to memorize, and that is the teaching: access is answered by the tradition’s own people, practice by practice, and when the answer is not clearly yes, the whole of the appropriate response is respect and study without borrowing. One more distinction worth carrying for life, since money confuses people here: buying an object, learning a technique, joining a ceremony, and claiming authority to teach are four different doors, and a price tag on the first says nothing about the other three. The open rooms of this craft are enormous. Nobody practicing from them goes hungry.
The Folk Layer
Underneath the named traditions runs the layer that never had a name: ordinary European folk practice, thick with knots for centuries, surviving mostly as fragments in collectors’ notebooks. The folklore journals and collections record the genre: threads knotted into clothing for protection, ribbons tied and exchanged between lovers, illness whispered into a cord as it was drawn tight and then buried or burned to carry the sickness away, and the milk-charming and wind-knot beliefs you have already met, jotted down from Scotland to Germany to the Somerset old ladies who, asked about witchcraft, mentioned a rope with feathers. Most of this was oral, most of it is lost, and the modern witch working in this register is reconstructing at least as much as she is inheriting, a sentence you now have the tools to hear as praise.
The Revival: How the Cord Came Back
The twentieth-century witchcraft revival put knot magic back into common hands, and the pipeline is documented: the founding writers of the revival, Gerald Gardner and the folklorists he read, Margaret Murray and Charles Leland among them, moved in exactly the circles where the old journal debates lived, and the practices they helped popularize carried the cord forward. Later books spread it wide; Scott Cunningham’s Earth Power, published in 1983, was among those that put cord techniques into a generation of solitary hands. The revival contains both genuine transmission and modern invention built on old structural bones, and the witch who knows which she is doing, inheriting or inventing, is the more honest witch. The magic, in either case, is the magic.
The Skill: Five Questions for Any Claim
History is only useful if it can defend you, and out there in the wild, knot magic claims arrive daily: ancient nine-knot rites, unbroken Atlantean cord lineages, spells your great-great-grandmothers all supposedly knew. Here is the working tool this lesson exists to give you, five questions to run any historical claim through before you let it shape your practice.
Where and when, exactly? Does the claim name a specific people, place, and period, or does it just say ancient? Ancient with no address is decoration, not history.
Can the source be identified and checked? A museum object, a dated text, a named folklore collection, or a living community’s own testimony: real claims trail sources that can be found and examined. Oral tradition counts when it can be traced to the people who actually hold it. And count your sources honestly: ten websites repeating one unsourced paragraph are one source wearing ten hats. Follow the trail to the earliest account you can reach.
Inherited, invented, or unknown? Does the teller distinguish what was transmitted from what was recently built on old bones? Silence is not guilt; plenty of true things went unrecorded, and plenty of writers simply skip their sources. But silence does mean unknown, and unknown is a legitimate verdict, not a defect to argue away in either direction.
Whose practice is it? Whose is it, and what are the terms of entry? The tradition’s own community answers that, practice by practice, and a claim that borrows what was not offered fails no matter how pretty it is.
What is actually being asked of the history? Untangle the two questions people mash together: is the history accurate, and is the practice worth doing? A working can be honestly modern and completely worth your hands; a history can be perfectly accurate about a practice that is not ours to take. Answer each on its own, and never let the second question bribe the first.
Four honest verdicts, not three: keep it, trim it, drop it, or park it as unresolved, because sometimes the evidence has not finished talking and the honest move is to wait.
Watch the checklist work on the most famous claim in this craft: witches have used the witch’s ladder for thousands of years. Where and when, exactly? One attic, Somerset, about 1878. Can the source be identified and checked? Gloriously: it hangs in the Pitt Rivers Museum, and it might be a deer-sewel, or a bird-scarer for a row of peas. Inherited, invented, or unknown? The modern practice is largely a revival grown from that single find, the journal argument around it, and at least one novelist’s confessed invention. Whose practice is it? Fully open. And what is being asked of the history? Only to be true, which, trimmed, it is: an old and mysterious object, a real Victorian debate, and a modern practice honestly reconstructed on genuinely ancient bones. The claim needed a haircut, and the practice underneath walked away completely intact. That is what vetting is for. It does not shrink your craft. It gives you a craft nobody can embarrass you out of.
What the Map Means for Your Hands
Stated simply, so you can carry it in a sentence. The wind-charm format, the witch’s ladder, the counted knot spells, handfasting cord work, and the European folk layer are open, ancient in their bones, and yours to learn. The endless knot and the arts of decorative knotwork are admired worldwide and credited accurately to the traditions that made them, and living devotional practices, a red thread from a matchmaker’s temple among them, belong first to the people living them. Khipu and Indigenous ceremonial cord work are studied with respect and never borrowed for spellwork, with each tradition’s own community holding the key. Carry this map and you carry the practice forward without doing harm in the carrying.
Knot Practice: The Wind-Sellers’ Week
This practice puts the history in your pocket, and honesty labels it before your hands begin: this is a modern working built on the wind-knot pattern. The sailors bought weather; you will store something kinder. The structure, tie to keep and untie to release, is the borrowed inheritance; the cargo and the words are this course’s, and now yours. The charm is made this week. Its releases happen whenever life calls for them, this week or next month, and no one should go hunting for a hard moment just to finish an assignment. Four parts.
Part One: Tie the Keeping Charm
Choose a cord that unties. Cut or choose a cord roughly the length of your forearm, soft enough to handle and grippy enough to hold a knot; the fibers lesson comes next, so tonight the junk drawer is a fine supplier. Then run the wind-sellers’ own quality test: tie one overhand knot in a spare end, snug it, and untie it. If your fingers fight to open it, choose a different cord, because everything this charm does depends on knots that can be undone.
Choose one thing worth storing. One quality, three doses, is the design: the same cargo in every knot, which keeps this cord to one purpose the way your first lesson taught. Calm is a classic; courage, patience, and steadiness serve just as well. Name it in one plain sentence before your hands move.
Tie three slow knots. Space them a hand’s width apart, with room left at both ends to grip. As each knot closes, name its dose aloud or silently: in this knot, steadiness, kept for when I need it. Set each knot snug enough to hold and never strained, because every one of these must open again.
Record it and carry it. Enter the charm in the Cord Book: date, cord, the quality stored, and the note three doses, none yet spent. Then the charm goes where the wind-sellers’ cords went: with you. Pocket, bag, wherever the person who will need it goes.
Part Two: Release a Knot When Life Asks
The wind-sellers taught the tying; this course insists on teaching the untying with equal care, since release is the half most lessons skip.
Wait for a real moment. A hard phone call ahead, a nervous morning, a night that will not settle: that is what the cord was loaded for. Reaching for it is the practice working, not a failure of self-sufficiency.
Take the next knot in line. Start from whichever end you like, but keep the same order thereafter, endmost knot first being the simple custom for this exercise. That order is an organizational choice made for clarity, not a recovered ancient rule, and you now know exactly how to tell those apart.
Untie it on purpose. Hold the knot a moment and recall what it keeps. Untie it slowly, and give it a line if words help: what was kept, I take up now. Then walk into the moment and do the thing. No particular feeling is required to arrive; the release is complete when the knot is open and the step is taken.
Keep the rest in reserve. The remaining knots stay tied and stay reserved, one dose per occasion; opening one does not oblige you to open the others. Log each release in the Cord Book with what the moment was. After the third, the working is complete: record its ending, and let the cord rest. It can be thanked and reused another day, and the full craft of endings and disposal has its own lesson later in this course. And to say it plainly, since the history could spook a careful student: nothing dangerous lives in your third knot. All three hold the same kind cargo. The gale stayed in the sixteenth century.
One connection to notice as you work: this charm is already counted knotwork, three knots doing three turns of duty. The counted-spell craft arriving soon, threes and sevens and nines that build a working upward, uses number differently, and the purpose assigned to the knots, storing or building, is what decides which craft your hands are doing. Feeling that difference from the inside is part of the assignment.
Part Three: Vet One Claim in the Wild
Find one historical claim about knot magic out in the world, a video, a blog, a book on your shelf, and run it through the five questions in writing. Give it its verdict in the Cord Book: keep it, trim it, drop it, or park it as unresolved. Ten minutes, and the checklist becomes yours instead of mine.
Part Four: Follow the Pull
Close with one honest paragraph: which tradition in this lesson tugged at you, what you would want to learn next about it, and what remains unknown. The pull toward a lineage is not a pedigree and grants no membership; it is curiosity, which is better, because curiosity is the one inheritance nobody can dispute. It is also real information about the practitioner you are becoming, and the Cord Book is where that information belongs.
Where Your Feet Are
The map is drawn: Egypt’s knot that became a goddess’s emblem and her seven-knot cure, the papyri and the poets, the bag of winds and the wind-sellers with their three-knot cords, a foster mother’s counted healing knots, an attic in Somerset and the argument it started, a novelist’s confession, the promise at the wrists, the red thread that does not break, the rooms entered by invitation, the nameless folk fragments, and the revival that put all of it back in reach. The history is the ground the technique stands on, and the ground supports the practice only when the witch knows where her feet are. Yours are on solid ground now.
Next, the craft turns physical and stays there: cords, fibers, and colors, what to choose and why, what everything substitutes for, and the honest good news about how little any of it costs. Bring your junk drawer. It is about to become a supply cabinet.
Disclaimer: Everything IFS Academy is an independent educational platform and is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or connected to the IFS Institute. While we strive for accuracy, errors can occur, and users are encouraged to cross-reference critical information. The courses in the Witchcraft & Folk Magic Series explore witchcraft, folk magic, and related spiritual and cultural practices for educational and personal-interest purposes only. Nothing in them guarantees any particular result, and no ritual, spell, correspondence, or practice is offered as a substitute for professional medical, psychological, legal, or financial advice. Practices that involve fire, candles, herbs, plants, or other physical materials carry real risks such as burns, allergic reaction, or toxicity, and any practice is undertaken at your own discretion and risk. They do not constitute therapy, mental health treatment, clinical training, or crisis support, and they should not be used as a substitute for professional mental health care.
Crisis Support: 🚨 If you are experiencing a mental health crisis, feel unsafe, feel at risk of harming yourself or someone else, or feel too overwhelmed to safely use self-directed practices, please pause this material and reach out for immediate support. Contact a licensed mental health professional, call or text 988 in the U.S. or Canada, or use your local emergency or crisis resources.
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