Life has a funny way of telling us where we need to be. Where we need to go. What we need to learn. What we need to feel - before we're allowed to get there. I didn't understand that for a long time. For almost two decades, actually.
It started the way most life-changing things do - quietly. Everything looked normal from the outside. University. Friends. A boyfriend. Family. The ordinary architecture of a life being built. And then, in just a few months - the way a building looks perfectly fine right up until it doesn't - everything collapsed.
The world took a different shape, and life took on a different meaning. And the question that moves into your chest and never quite leaves arrived for the first time: How much time do we actually have here?
Why me. Why my family. Why now. He is so young. He is a good person. If you've ever stood inside those questions - you know there are no answers. Only the asking. Over and over, in the dark, in the shower, at 3am, in the middle of a conversation you're pretending to have while your whole inner world is on fire.
My young self didn't fully grasp the weight of what was coming. I was positive. I was present. I was there - for someone I loved so deeply that their pain felt more urgent than my own. I told myself I could handle it better than everyone else. I was lying to myself. But I wouldn't know that for years.
I watched the light get smaller. Even the small glimpses weren't enough in the end. And then the person who was my best friend, my biggest support, the most loved human being in my life - was gone and was never coming back.
And I - my young, unprepared, fiercely loving self - had to become a pillar for everyone else around me. Because someone had to. Because I decided, without anyone asking me to, that I could absorb the pain so others wouldn't have to feel it as much.
I went through anger. Sadness. Depression. Denial. Years of searching for a why that never came. And underneath all of it - I didn't let myself mourn. Not really. I pushed it down so deep that it only surfaced in those moments when everything burst open at once - hours of crying - and then I would stand up, wipe my face, and tell myself: You're okay. Everything will be alright. And I would go back to being strong.
For almost 16 years, I was everyone's generator. Constantly producing strength for others. Constantly trying to save people - even people who didn't need saving - because somewhere inside me, the girl who couldn't save someone she loved was still trying. Still reaching back through time and still desperate to fix the one thing that couldn't be fixed.
I forgot how to be weak. I forgot how to ask for help. I forgot what it felt like to actually feel something. I would laugh and I would smile and I would show up every single day - but on the inside there was nothing. A vast and careful neutrality had taken over, like I had quietly turned the volume down on my own life so I could keep managing everyone else's.
And then life did what it does. It sent me exactly what I needed, disguised as the two greatest gifts I have ever received - my partner and my child.
They didn't fix me. That's not how it works. But they opened something. A door I had sealed shut so carefully, for so long, that I had almost forgotten it was there.
They showed me that life has a deeper meaning. That it is precious. That love isn't just something you give to protect others from pain. It's something you are allowed to receive.
I learned again how to love being alive. How to feel. How to laugh - really laugh - from somewhere real. It took time. It took reaching some very dark places first. And it took the hardest thing I had ever done - asking for help.
This is not an astrology blog. It was never meant to be. Astrology has been my companion through all of this - a language that helped me understand what my life was trying to teach me. And it will be woven through everything I write here.
But this space - Soul in Transit - is something simpler and more important than that. It is a place for pure stories. Pure experiences. Pure emotions.
It is me reaching back through everything I've been through, finding you in the middle of yours, and saying the thing I needed someone to say to me for sixteen years:
You are not alone. You never have been alone - even when it felt that way the most. You just need to talk about it. Ask for it. Let someone in.
I am living proof that the other side of the darkest night exists. And I'll keep the light on here - for as long as you need it.
Welcome to Soul in Transit.
