There are people here helping me. Family, I think. I can feel them more than I can see them. I know my mother is here even if she doesn’t fully appear. Just a presence. Just a knowing.

The apartment feels unfinished, like it hasn’t decided what it is yet. I’m moving furniture around, trying to make things fit. Trying to make it make sense.

There’s a rug on the floor. Threadbare. Worn down to almost nothing. It’s in pieces, like it’s been taken apart and put back together too many times. Someone tells me I should replace it. I don’t. It feels important that it stays.

I keep rearranging things. That’s when I realize the apartment is bigger than I thought.

There are rooms I didn’t see before. A kitchen. Another bathroom. Then another. Three in total. The toilets are old, almost antique. One sits by itself in a corner, exposed, like it was placed there and forgotten. I try to move a desk into the space, but the toilet blocks it. I stop.

Something feels wrong so I keep exploring.

I see a door I hadn’t noticed before. It’s split in two, the top half opening separately from the bottom, like something meant to keep only part of you out.

I open it.

There’s a kitchen inside. Normal enough. Tile. A stove. But when I turn the corner, the space shifts. It stretches further than it should.

And then it becomes something else. A hallway. Long. Narrow. It keeps going. A bathroom too?

The walls are covered in photographs. Old ones. Black and white. Sepia. Faces from another time. It feels less like a bathroom and more like an altar. Like a place meant for remembering.

I walk further in.

At the end, everything gathers. Photos. Objects. Small things that feel like they’ve been kept on purpose. Preserved.

There’s a man in the images.

Over and over again.

He looks like my father.

Not exactly. But enough that I can’t ignore it.

I stand there trying to understand how that could be possible. The photos are too old. Late 1800s, early 1900s. Long before him. And still.

I know.

Or I think I know.

Or I don’t want to know.

To the right, there’s a bathtub. Massive. Deep enough to step down into. It feels less like a bath and more like something ceremonial. Something you enter.

There’s no mirror anywhere.

That detail sticks with me.

I leave the room.

Back in the main space, I grab family by the hand. I need them to see this. I need someone else to confirm I’m not imagining it.

We go back.

But now the hallway is full.

Women line the space. Older women. Dressed like they’re on their way somewhere important. Church, maybe. Or something older than that. They stand patiently, like they’ve been waiting.

There are so many of them.

We try to move through, excusing ourselves, pushing gently past. I keep saying we’re not here to use the bathroom. I just need to show her something.

The closer we get, the tighter the space becomes.

More bodies. More heat. More pressure.

We reach the front.

I show her the images.

She looks. Tilts her head.

“It kind of looks like him,” she says. “But I don’t know.”

I do.

Or I think I do.

Something in me goes cold.

I say it out loud this time. I can’t just move this stuff. I can’t throw it away. Something about this place isn’t right.

I leave again.

The dream shifts.

I’m back in the apartment with someone else now. I show her everything. Tell her not to touch anything. I can feel it more clearly now. This isn’t just a space. It’s holding something.

I’m still planning to move in.

Even now.

That feels important.

The dream shift.

There’s a woman in the apartment. She moves like she belongs there. Like she’s always been there. She knows the space in a way I don’t.

I’m holding something I’ve taken from the room. I’m thinking about putting it outside. Letting someone else take it.

She looks at me.

“Sit it out where?” she asks.

“Outside,” I say.

“For what?”

“So someone can take it.”

She pauses.

“No one’s going to take that.”

Something about the way she says it lands.

I hesitate.

I shouldn’t move anything. I shouldn’t spread whatever this is.

She reaches behind something and pulls out a bottle. Says she’s going to have a drink.

I recognize it.

Someone else had brought it earlier. Offered it to me. Told me I should have some.

I didn’t.

She pours it anyway.

And then it ended in darkness.

I wait a beat as the sound of my heart pounding fills my ears and echoes around me in the dark.

I open my eyes as my bedroom comes into focus, welcoming me back to the waking world.

This is literally how I feel.

Tired. A bit run down. Low energy. Emotionally full in a way that feels heavy, not expressive. Just like this plastic bag with water sitting at the bottom. Not overflowing, not spilling over, just heavy where it collects.

It’s a strange thing, a plastic bag holding water. It wasn’t built for that. But it’s doing it anyway. You can see the strain in how it shape-shifts. The way it stretches itself to hold the weight.

Hard to ignore but not broken. Not leaking. Not even overwhelming in a dramatic way. Just accumulated. Effort that has nowhere to go…yet.

And the thing about carrying something like this. You have to keep it upright. You can’t relax your grip. You can’t set it down without consequence. So you hold it. Carefully.

So the next time you ask, “How are you?” make sure you actually want the answer.

And then make space for what comes. Because sometimes the answer isn’t simple or even that deep.

It’s just heavy.

There was a pup named Pi.

I am he and he is I.

He was small, soft, and covered in hair

That flopped in the wind whenever it stirred.

My human would say I was the apple of her eye

But mischief was the glint in mine.

For I am an explorer, you see

Traveling for the first time to this place of earthlings.

Excited to be here, always searching for more

But bound and unable to do it on my own.

My human was often sad, you see

Not always willing to wander with me.

And so I would cry, tug, and beg

Pleading to go and be one with the land

But she would hang her head and cry

Unable, it seemed, to be my guide.

I tried in all the ways I can

To help her somehow understand.

I pulled tarot to tell my tale

The World reversed, the Two of Swords unveiled.

She would laugh and giggle at me

Then drift away, distractedly.

And so I sit and hang my head

Hoping tomorrow we wander instead.

This reading is organized by astrological modalities. For each one, I pulled a three-card spread reflecting the past, present, and future, plus the bottom of the deck, which points to the underlying energy shaping the whole picture.

As always, read these messages with discernment. Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t. No forcing insight.

Today’s reading is using the Uusi Pagan Otherworld Deck. You can find shop here.

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Are you familiar with the story of Orpheus and Eurydice? It’s a Greek mythology, part parable, part warning wrapped in tragedy. I’ve heard it told various ways, often showing up in other works like Shakespeare, tv shows like Netflix’s The Sandman, or movies like Hamnet, but it’s almost always framed the same way: as a love story. But what struck me recently is how it feels like a love story of a different kind. Or maybe that’s just where I am right now, because life is the hardest it’s ever been for me these days, and stories have a way of shifting when you’re inside something like that.

The tale most people know is one of a love ripped apart by death. Orpheus was a musician with a supernatural talent. When he played, the world stopped to listen. In some stories he is the son of a muse, so of course he would be more than just a human musician. He was married to Eurydice. Not much is written about her, which feels predictable given how often women were treated as background in these kinds of stories. But it is established that they had a great love. The story goes that shortly after they were wed, she is walking through a field and is startled by a man named Aristaeus. In her haste to get away, she steps on a snake and dies.

Orpheus is devastated. He cannot go on without her, so he does the unthinkable and goes beyond the veil to find her. He plays his music as he walks into the underworld, and the sound is so heartbreakingly beautiful it bends the rules of that place. Even Hades softens and offers him a deal. Eurydice can return to the land of the living, but there is one condition. Orpheus must walk ahead of her and not look back until they reach the surface.

No checking. No reassurances. No asking if she is still there. Just trust. Just faith.

He agrees, and they begin the climb. It is dark, long, and silent in the way only certain kinds of waiting can be. It doesn’t take long before doubt starts to creep in. Anyone who has ever waited in silence knows how quickly your mind fills the space. Maybe she is not there. Maybe the deal was never real. Maybe he has been walking alone this entire time, carrying hope like a weight he can’t quite set down.

Right as they reach the surface, he turns around, and she vanishes. Gone for good.

But what if it’s a love story of a different kind?

The story is so centered on Orpheus, so if I flip this around and look at it from Eurydice’s perspective, I start to wonder if she even wanted to return. What was her actual choice in any of this? Let’s imagine she is down there in the land of the dead, not suffering, but expanded. Reconnecting with ancestors. Living in a way that is no longer limited by her body, her womanhood, or the smallness of a single human life. In death, she has access to memory, understanding, and a kind of wholeness that feels less like an ending and more like a return.

Maybe in her version of the story, she did make a choice. On that walk to the surface, maybe she slowed down. Maybe she let the distance stretch between them. Enough space to plant doubt. Enough distance to make him turn around. Knowing the risk, but also shaping the outcome. Creating the exact conditions that would allow her to drift back to where she truly wanted to be.

Or maybe it is even simpler than that. What if Eurydice and Orpheus are the same? A split consciousness where Orpheus is the human self and Eurydice is the deeper soul.

In that version of the story, the descent into the underworld becomes incarnation. Density, time, grief, survival. The instruction not to look back becomes something else entirely. A quiet warning not to try to grasp the spiritual through force, control, or effort. And the turning back, the doubt, becomes the moment the human self tries to verify what can only be trusted.

Lately I feel tangled in my body, my emotions, bills, financial insecurity, survival. And at the same time, I am aware of something else running alongside all of it. Ancestry. Spirit. Meaning. A creative current that flickers in and out of reach. When the human part of me gets anxious, it feels like I have lost that tether. So I look back. I reach for reassurance. And every time I do, it feels like I create more distance instead of less, like trying to hold water tighter only makes it slip through faster.

To be human is to be fully immersed in the physical. Body, senses, emotions, personality. Without those familiar cues, it becomes hard to hold onto something less tangible. The knowing. The faith. That thin but steady thread that connects us to something beyond what we can see. And the more we try to find it through physical means, the more it recedes, just out of grasp.

The image that keeps coming to mind is Pisces. Two fish swimming, one behind the other, connected by a cord. Moving in different directions, but never fully separate. That tension between them feels like the same tension I have been trying to name.

And after sitting with this for a while, something simple came to me. Our anxiety is not evidence that we have lost our spiritual tether. It is evidence that our nervous system is overloaded.

Spirit does not disappear when cortisol rises, but our access to it can blur, like a signal still present but harder to tune into.

For me, meditation has been the way back. A way to move out of the noise of my nervous system and settle into something quieter, something steadier. When I get there, I can feel that cord again, subtle but undeniable.

So whichever way you want to interpret this story, the truth is that there is always more to it than what we are first told. And perhaps the version we need is the one that meets us where we are.

She moved steadily through the foliage, brushing past clusters of blue iris and low-spilling creeping jenny that curled along the earth like it had nowhere else to be. The narrow leaves noticed her and whispered against her skin as a branch here and there grazed the thin fabric of her white nightgown. The damp ground still held the day’s warmth beneath her bare feet, even as the evening air began to cool.

Finally, she came upon the clearing. The one she had been searching for.

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But I’m aware that there is a small group of folks who are living life like everything is normal, routine…just another day. If that’s you please kindly hit the back button at the top left of this screen and quietly take your leave.

This story is for all the dreamers, manifestors, lo…

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The night sky stretches wide in front of her, framed within the tall arched window pane. A deep velvet blue stitched with stars. They blink slowly, patiently, as if they’ve been waiting for her to notice them.

Time loosens its grip in the quiet.

The room breathes with her.

Short inhale.

Long exhale.

For a moment, the…

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This reading is organized by birth order. For each one, I pulled a three-card spread reflecting the past, present, and future, plus the bottom of the deck, which points to the underlying energy shaping the whole picture.

As always, read these messages with discernment. Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t. No forcing insight.

Today’s reading features The Infinite Door tarot deck. You can shop it here.

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She was fae, although not the delicate creature the human tales had turned her into. She was a true warrior, forged of elder magic, a sentinel of clarity, a keeper of the unseen.

She was tired from battle, her wings heavy after the long fight, but the …

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A dense, old forest surrounds us, where the trees lean in like elders who’ve heard everything. And in the center sits a woman.

She is perched on a tree stump that has shape-shifted itself into a chair just for her…because of course it would. The forest knows her. The moss knows her. Even th…

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I think it started early.

Needing to eat our veggies but choosing French fries.

Sitting in the salon chair thinking bangs are a good idea.

Dating the guy everyone warns you about instead of the nice one who actually calls when he says.

There’s a pattern here.

Right now, the good medicine I can’t seem to take is medi…

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Valentine’s Day, as we currently know it, started taking shape in the 14th and 15th centuries as a day for couples to express their love. Its true origin is theorized to be much darker (which is a delicious rabbit hole if you’re so inclined).

But we won’t get into that now.

What I will say is this: Examining the shadow of things has been fruitful work for…

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Each month, these readings will move through a different lens. We’ll rotate between:

• Astrological Elements (Air, WaterFire, Earth, Air, Water)

• Birth Order (Oldest, Middle, Youngest, Only)

• The Wheel of the Year (Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall)

• Astrological Modalities (Cardinal, Fixed, Mutable)

This is one of the things paid subscribers make possible.

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How do you know when it’s the end?

Does an inner alarm go off?

Does God whisper in your ear?

How do you know when it’s time to move on?

Is there a sign?

A symbol in the distance that shows the way?

How do you know when a chapter has closed?

Do the words stop chasing each other across the page?

Does the absence of thought signal the end?

Or is it something qui…

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And yet, there is something.

For me, it was realizing I’d spent years living neck-up: my mind and emotions riding in the front seat, whi…

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For nearly six years, I helped build a fashion brand that made actual money, had actual customers, and required actual strategy. It had seasonal collections, runway shows, brand partnerships, and a devoted community. It paid my business partner’s rent. It quietly paid me, too.

I can’t pu…

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Each task something to get through.

Time doesn’t feel real.

Each day feels like one step toward the end of a long plank.

You can see it - where the wood stops and there’s only blue sky ahead.

And every day is just one step closer.

This is what life feels like right now.

One step toward… I don’t know what.

The en…

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She made friends with all the creatures - rabbits with twitching noses, foxes with flame-colored tails. But she would always run home in tears because …

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Fear, fear, fear.

My mind has gotten busie…

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