Business Witch Academy Faculty: Ophelia founder of Ophelia's Bazaar
Ophelia is the creator behind Ophelia’s Bazaar, a magical art brand offering illustrated merch that blends emotional truth, whimsy, and insight.
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Ophelia
Ophelia’s Bazaar
Ophelia is the creator behind Ophelia’s Bazaar, a magical art brand offering illustrated merch that blends emotional truth, whimsy, and insight. Through visual storytelling and metaphor-rich design, her work helps people feel seen, soothed, and reminded of who they are beneath the noise.
Magical Modality
Business Witch Academy Director of Visual Enchantments: Visual Storytelling, Emotional Translation, & Symbolic Truth
Translating complex emotions into accessible visual metaphors
Teaching how art can bypass logic and speak directly to inner knowing
Helping creatives trust intuition, mess, and nonlinear creation
Modeling permission to be both unfinished and powerful
Using symbolism and story to foster reflection, healing, and self-recognition
Demonstrating how meaning can be carried through objects, not just word
Ophelia’s Story
You know I don’t usually lose it. I dramatize, sure. I flap around. I threaten to quit reality once a week and go live in a marsh made of metaphors. But I don’t usually actually combust.
Except this day. Today.
Today I snapped like a wand made of resentment.
It started stupid. They always do, right? I was already on edge because I’d spent the whole morning trying to rewrite my entire About page. Last night, I asked Qyl to take a look, and now I find myself trying to sound “professional but still warm but not too weird but still authentic but also clear but also magical but also not intimidating.” So basically, I was trying to describe a flaming unicorn with anxiety who works in HR.
I might’ve snapped a pencil or two, and the letter K flew off my keyboard and now I can’t find it. Do you know how annoying it is to type without the letter K?! ‘S’ sure. ‘E’—eternally troubling. But ‘K’? Do you know how often we use the letter K? You will, once it’s missing from the middle of your keyboard.
Then, because I was focused on getting my About page just right, I lost track of time and the packages were late. The glitter printer jammed. My new fluorescent pink packing tape got tangled in my tail. And Tim, my postman, plastered a polite smile on his face and a squint in his eyes while I flailed around my shop—sparkling so hard with glitter ink I looked like a disco ball, with bits of Styrofoam clinging to me here, there, and everywhere, and tape flying behind me like the tail of a kite.
Bless Tim’s heart. He quietly stood there waiting for me. I’ll have to gift him some homemade cookies tomorrow in apology.
Once the packages were finally tucked safely under Tim’s arm, I thought I’d sit down and do something simple for a little bit.
I made the mistake of checking my social media.
Someone on the internet said I was “a little much,” and another someone reposted my art without credit, slapped it on a tote bag, and misspelled my name.
O-LIAH.
LIAH???
Do I look like an Irish tax accountant with a gluten intolerance and a secret Pinterest board titled “Live, Laugh, Whisky”?
NO I DO NOT.
But I was still managing. I was holding it together with enchanted scale-pins and righteous indignation and three stale granola bites.
Until.
The coconut muffin.
He brought it in—he being Qyl (sounds like Kyle, spelled like a$$hole), the griffin I was sort-of-dating-kind-of-living-with-accidentally-trauma-bonded-to. My mother always warned me to steer clear of griffins, but did I listen? Of course not. No one takes dating advice from their mother seriously.
Qyl smiled like he’d just invented empathy and said,
“You’ve been so sensitive lately. I thought this would cheer you up.”
Cheer me up.
Because of course the correct response to someone actively unraveling is to hand them a baked good with texture issues and zero frosting-based personality, and act like they’re a moody toddler with low blood sugar.
I should’ve said thank you.
I did say thank you.
Then I sat there, staring at that muffin like it had personally insulted my ancestors.
Because here’s the truth I didn’t want to look at:
This man had not asked me once—not once—what was wrong.
He hadn’t held space, or offered curiosity, or asked if I needed to scream into the void or lie facedown in the closet under a giant pile of squishies.
He just wanted the mess to go away when I walked in the door at the end of the day.
He wanted me digestible, like one of those enchanted marshmallows that shrink your opinions down to fun-size.
And I capitulated.
I tried to make things nice instead of true.
I kept my wings folded and my tail tucked so I wouldn’t knock anything over.
I learned to narrate my own needs like a nature documentary at the end of each day.
I made nothing a big deal—not even me.
And darling, you know how fabulous I am.
And then came the muffin. The muffin with texture issues.
How is it, after all this time, he doesn’t even know what kind of muffins I like?
I tried to swallow it.
Not a bite of the muffin—but the whole situation.
I tried to swallow the anger and resentment that was bubbling up inside me like a volcano ready to burst.
It hurt. It physically hurt to hold it all in.
That’s when I realized what I was really doing.
That I was burning myself instead of setting fire to the things that actually deserved it.
So I picked up the muffin and threw it at him as hard as I could.
I might’ve actually screamed at him to get out and never come back.
Not politely. Not quietly.
As he opened the door to the shop, I saw a few passersby who were stopped by the commotion and were staring at us. As I watched their expressions change from mild curiosity to concern, I noticed Qyl was smoking a little as he walked out the door. I must have actually breathed fire when I yelled.
It happens sometimes.
I quickly plastered a smile on my face and waved at the would-be shoppers.
I was feeling much better.
That was the day I stopped asking if my rage was “valid.”
Not because I gave myself permission—but because I realized I never needed it.
Feelings don’t just appear for no reason, unlike H’aylari—the mildly annoying, overly talkative mystical yak from next door.
It’s never a question of validity.
Just a question of what you do with them.
And bottling emotions is like lining the shelves of your store with Molotov cocktails and inviting a flaming monkey to be your assistant.
“Some things deserve to burn. Let them light the way.”
Wisdom in the Deck
Card: What you’re looking for is already tangled in your roots.
Theme: Ophelia’s card centers on remembrance rather than revelation. It teaches that what we seek through striving, searching, or reinvention is often already woven into our instincts, patterns, and inner truth—waiting to be unearthed.
Find Her Magic
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