This wasn’t fiction. It was a mirror.
Coven is a magic story, yes, but more than that, it’s about power. The kind of power women inherit in silence. The kind we’re told to hide, dilute, tame. The kind that simmers in the body until one day it ignites, in our words, in our walk, in our refusal to apologize.
The young witches in this season aren’t just learning how to levitate or control minds. They’re facing a deeper initiation: discovering who they are in a world that punishes women for knowing themselves.
At its core, Coven follows a group of young witches training at Miss Robichaux’s Academy to harness their powers and discover who among them is the next Supreme — the one woman capable of mastering all Seven Wonders.
The Seven Wonders aren’t just magical challenges. They are spiritual metaphors for every woman’s awakening.
Telekinesis: Moving what others say you can’t.
Concilium: Taking back mental space that was stolen.
Transmutation: Shifting form when life demands it.
Divination: Trusting your knowing even when the world calls it “crazy.”
Descensum: Entering your own underworld — and coming back.
Vitalum Vitalis: Giving life without losing your own.
Pyrokinesis: Knowing when to burn it all down.
To be Supreme is not to be perfect. It is to endure, evolve, and embody what others fear.
Where the show pierces is in what it says about aging, envy, and legacy. Fiona Goode, the Supreme, is every woman who was told her value fades with time. Her fear of death isn’t just about mortality; it’s about irrelevance. About watching the world forget your beauty, your brilliance, your fire. About being replaced, recycled, erased.
And that’s where Coven gets brutally honest. Because the most dangerous thing in the world is not a woman with power it’s a woman afraid to lose it. What we see in Fiona is the shadow side of the divine feminine: when strength becomes control, when elegance turns venomous, when immortality becomes a curse. And still… we understand her. We ache for her. Because somewhere in all of us lives the fear that one day, we will no longer be seen.
when strength becomes control, when elegance turns venomous, when immortality becomes a curse.
Then comes Marie Laveau. Played by the unmatched Angela Bassett, she walks into the story not as a rival, but as a reckoning. Based on the real Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Marie doesn’t beg for respect. She radiates it. She reminds us that true power doesn’t need to explain itself and that Black and Indigenous feminine wisdom has always been the blueprint, not the afterthought. That resistance is a ritual. And survival is sacred.
What makes Coven so unforgettable is the way it dares to show women in their complexity.
It holds space for sisterhood and betrayal. For healing and destruction. For compassion and rage. It doesn’t polish female power into something palatable. It lets it be messy, vengeful, sensual, divine.
Coven reaches across the veil to touch something many of us have forgotten: that magic is real. That it’s woven through bloodlines and memory. It lives in our tears, our silence, our laughter, our choices. And that especially women who’ve been othered, silenced, or burned hold the keys to something the world still isn’t ready to name.
But we don’t need permission anymore. The age of hiding is over. And Coven knew that.
Because this wasn’t just a season of television.
It was an invocation.
And if you felt it too,
then darling —
you’re already one of us.
Love, Mara
