Black Madonna Magick in France

The morning air in Rocamadour shimmered with possibility—as if the very stones of this ancient pilgrimage site carried centuries of whispered prayers.

Megan and I had come for the sacred, drawn by the promise of transformation and the legend of the 12th century Black Madonna who gazes over seekers from the sacred Notre-Dame Chapel.

After reverently pausing at each of the 14 Stations of the Cross, tracing the last steps of Jesus’ life, we began our descent down the Zig Zagged pathway. I felt both awe and a curious sense of anticipation. Rocamadour is not just a place you visit; it’s a place that visits you.

Suddenly, Megan stumbled. Before either of us could register what was happening, she fell hard, her ankle twisting beneath her. She gasped in pain and collapsed to the path, all color draining from her face as she realized she couldn’t stand.

My heart clenched. Before logic could intervene, I dropped to my knees beside her. Blue and black bruises were already blooming across her swelling ankle. The gravity of the moment settled deep in my bones.

With steady hands, I cupped Megan’s injured ankle. The ancient energy of the Black Madonna—that fierce, compassionate protector of the weary and wounded whose presence still radiates from her chapel above us—flared in my chest. I called her in, reaching for the divine feminine currents said to flow through Rocamadour. Instantly, I felt it. An electric shock surged down my back, into my arms, pooling in my palms.

Megan screamed as the energy pulsed into her injury.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“I’m healing you. Stay still.” I tried to anchor both of us in the moment, trusting the mystery that was moving through me.

Just off the pathway, I noticed a small altar half-hidden by the wild nature. “Can you make it there if I help?” Megan nodded, and, leaning on me, she hobbled over. She lay across the stones, crying—not only from pain, but from the flood of old memories.

Her ankle had suffered before, years ago in a scooter accident. We saw clearly that this wasn’t just a physical wound, but an invitation to release old trauma that had never truly healed.

Our dear friend and fellow healer, Serena, who must have felt the pulse of energy from somewhere nearby, came into view. Calling her over, her presence was warm and steady. She took over, channeling her own healing force into Megan’s ankle.

Within minutes, Megan managed to stand. Slowly, she limped down the rest of the path. Relief warred with disbelief in both of our hearts.

That afternoon, Megan rested in her hotel room, as we iced and elevated her ankle as directed. The rest of the group kept checking on her, anxious, and offering various remedies.

The next morning, the true extent of the miracle revealed itself. Megan walked almost normally. There was no bruising on her ankle. By the time we left Rocamadour, she was climbing hills and weaving through streets like normal.

Even as I write this, reflecting on that day, gratitude wells up within me. The Black Madonna met us in our moment of need, a witness and facilitator of a healing that reached far beyond a twisted ankle.

Megan’s recovery was more than a physical miracle; it was a reclamation of trust—in her own body, and in the mysterious, loving forces that walk beside us on this never-ending path of becoming.

We carry that day with us. And I share it to remind us all, that when we open ourselves to the ancient energies and allow ourselves to be vessels for greater healing, true magic can happen. There is power in the unknown, compassion in our vulnerability, and transformation waiting for us in the most unexpected places.

May you, too, visit one day.  May you feel the energy of the Black Madonna when you need it most. May you know the miracle of connection—in ancient chapels, in the arms of friends, within the truth of your own heart.