a return to raw

I'm not sure if I should share this, but that's usually a good enough reason (for me) to share it anyway

Five months ago, I got onto a plane after a day of ocean, sun, and Aphrodite with my friend, Rose. I sat in a cushy seat, a points-laden gift of spending so much money to bring my cats with me. I even got a glass of white wine. I had done it.

Since the moment I started to realistically think about moving (2024) to this moment in 2026, I had focused much of my energy and resources on leaving a life behind and risking a life I couldn’t picture yet.

As soon as I made the choice, everything fell into place. I got into a postgrad program within weeks. I found the resources to pay off my debt and bring my cats with me. There were reassurances of love and support from all directions, from people and skies and the way everything went so quickly.

This is not to say it was easy. I carry wounds that make me a wise teacher and writer, but also a sad girl. There is always leaving in my life—either of my own doing or the universe’s. To live the life of my heart, things change and grow and shift and die. And there are spaces when I can not recall how I lived through those moments before.

Those are quiet times, where I go inward. Where I do not share the vulnerable bits. In the liminal moments, I cling to what I think will save me: I just want my mom.

But as much as I loved/love her, there is a loud wound. She had the same one, I think. The deep wound of wanting someone to hold her during hard times, to know she could be held. That her feelings were normal, safe.

I would reach out to her and she wouldn’t be able to hold me. Her arms were already so heavy with her worries, the ones she wanted her mother to hold. Generational trauma is a mighty, gaping, oozing wound.

The trick is that when you are starving for that attunement, you will eat the smallest crumbs. You will see feasts during lean times. You will take the smallest kindnesses and crown them. You will give your allegiance to ‘enough.’

Yet, I was still hungry.

I am starting my Chiron Return in Taurus in the 12th House. I have felt it, the way old wounds like these became louder in the last year. How I went into old patterns of avoidance, intellectualization, and distrust.

I didn’t believe I could be held—because I didn’t get that from the start.

I didn’t trust it. I found every flaw, every extra breath, every slightly tense expression or delayed response.

No matter who offered.

Myself. Someone else.

Many someone else’s.

No matter how much I yearned for it.

This is not to say people haven’t tried. This is not to say I haven’t tried.

This is to say I don’t know how to hold things sometimes.

This is a glimpse into my stubbornness.

This is a glimpse into my want to be completely self-sufficient while also being really tired of trying to keep that up.

This is a glimpse of my real self, the one that yearns and the one that hides from the yearning.

I am hesitant to share as I have before. Not because of what I have to share, but rather that my softness that brings people closer also exposes me.

I am left honest and undressed by the confessions of being a human with a wild, fierce heart.

I entered the world into a wound, into thinner skin that fuels my writing and my magick, that helps other wounds find comfort and consideration, an invitation to reciprocal rawness: the kind that offers safety in belonging to similar wounds.

There is a place to rest and a space to love in these widened doors.

There is a space to be seen and known and loved for every scratch and scar.

There is a greater risk for wounding the wound.

For the known wound to be knowingly wounded.

I have given myself a gift here, a gift of meeting my desires in a doorway between then and whatever is next. A portal of expected and unexpected heartbreaks.

Love and Grief meet. Again.

And again.

Love offers Hope.

Grief offers Initiation.

This turn of the stars meets me here—

a wounded healer,

embraced by starlight.

I return to myself here.