Between Moon and Water

I created Between Moon and Water because I needed somewhere to put the parts of myself that don’t always make sense when I say them out loud.

The spiritual parts.

The emotional parts.

The parts that feel too much, question too much, and sometimes just want everybody to leave me the hell alone.

Being a spiritual woman is exhausting.

Being an air-and-water woman? Even more exhausting.

Gemini Sun. Pisces Moon. Cancer Rising.

The Twins, the Fish, and the Crab.

I thought being born on the cusp would be cute. Special. Magical.

Nobody told me I was signing up for the ultimate Twin living inside the powerful Crab while a Pisces Moon sits in the background feeling every damn thing.

I don’t always want to feel everything.

I hate crowds.

Not because I hate people. I hate what sometimes happens to me around too many people.

I can walk into a space feeling perfectly fine and suddenly feel sadness, anger, grief, anxiety, heaviness—sometimes even thoughts so dark that I have to stop and ask myself:

Is this mine?

Because sometimes it doesn’t feel like mine.

That’s the part of spirituality people romanticize.

Everybody wants to talk about intuition, third eyes, signs, dreams and being “gifted.”

Okay.

But what about when your third eye is twitching?

What about when you wake up and think you saw a shadow standing at the end of your bed?

What about when something inside you tells you to stop a complete stranger and ask about a family member who died?

What about when you get a feeling that someone has passed—or that somehow they are somewhere in between?

What do you do with that?

I don’t claim to have an explanation for every experience I’ve had. I don’t know whether every feeling is spiritual, intuition, empathy, my nervous system, pattern recognition, or something I don’t have words for yet.

I just know what I have experienced.

And sometimes I wish I could turn it off.

Before I was a spiritual woman, I was a sensitive little girl.

I was hated from a tender age.

At least that’s how it felt to that little girl.

I remember sitting there wondering:

What did I do to these people?

Why are you giving me grief?

Why don’t you like me?

For a while, I thought maybe it was my face.

I had this big, round, moon-like face.

Funny now.

Of course the Cancer woman would grow up remembering her little moon face.

The Moon follows me everywhere.

Cancer is ruled by the Moon, and the Moon doesn’t stay in one phase.

Neither do I.

I can nurture you and then need my shell.

I can love you deeply and still reach a point where something inside me says, Enough.

I’ve done it with friendships.

I’ve lost trust in people without giving them an explanation.

No big fight.

No dramatic goodbye.

Sometimes I noticed jealousy. Sometimes someone’s intentions didn’t feel favorable. Sometimes their words stopped matching their behavior.

And sometimes I simply noticed that every time I left their presence, I felt exhausted.

I’ve had to learn that intuition doesn’t automatically make everything I feel about another person a fact.

But intuition can tell me to pay attention.

Then behavior shows me what I need to know.

And if I don’t protect me, who will?

A boundary doesn’t require me to make somebody a villain.

Sometimes I simply don’t want you around me anymore.

Then there is family.

Family was never going to be a small subject in my life.

Cancer is associated with home, roots, family, mothering and emotional security.

And somehow my life keeps bringing me back there.

My father is a Libra.

Libra energy connects to my fourth-house story—the house associated in astrology with family, home and roots.

Years later, one of my biggest spiritual awakenings happened through a Libra man.

Another Libra.

Another relationship making me look deeper into myself.

Coincidence?

Maybe.

But when patterns repeat enough times, I pay attention.

Then there’s my mother.

She’s a Pisces.

And I’m a Pisces Moon.

My mother was emotional.

She also felt so alone having me.

As a child, you experience your mother as Mom. You don’t understand yet that she’s also a woman carrying her own loneliness, fears, history and emotional world.

Now I sometimes wonder how much I was absorbing before I even had words for emotions.

Maybe that’s part of why heavy energy has always exhausted me.

Some people can enter a room, have a conversation and walk back out unchanged.

Me?

Sometimes I feel like I walked through somebody else’s emotional house and accidentally brought their furniture home with me.

And I don’t want it.

I didn’t want astrology to explain me.

I really didn’t.

I wanted to believe it wasn’t me.

I wasn’t going to blame everything on Gemini.

I wasn’t going to say, Oh, I’m emotional because I’m Cancer.

I wasn’t going to turn every failed relationship into somebody’s zodiac sign.

But the more I learned about myself, the more astrology gave me language for things I had already lived.

My Pisces Moon gave me language for emotional sensitivity.

My Cancer Rising made sense of the shell.

And then I found my Gemini Sun sitting in the 12th house.

Of course.

The damn hidden house.

Gemini wants to communicate, question, learn and understand.

But my Gemini Sun sits in a part of the chart astrologers associate with what is hidden, private, unconscious and spiritual.

And suddenly something clicked:

People can see me and still not see me.

Maybe that’s part of why air-sign men have fascinated me.

And why they seem fascinated by me.

They meet Gemini first.

They get the conversation.

The jokes.

The curiosity.

The intelligence.

The Twin who can talk about five different subjects before breakfast.

Then eventually they meet the water.

And baby, there is a lot of water underneath that air.

Sometimes they hurt me.

Sometimes they simply don’t understand me.

Maybe they were attracted to something they could see without understanding everything underneath it.

They met the Gemini.

They didn’t know what was hiding in the 12th house.

Dating while spiritual is its own kind of exhausting.

People want the benefits of a spiritual woman.

They want the woman who listens.

The woman who senses when something is wrong.

The woman who encourages them.

The woman who prays for them.

The woman who can sit beside their darkness without immediately running away.

They want your peace.

Your softness.

Your intuition.

Your nurturing.

But sometimes they don’t want everything that created that woman.

They don’t want your boundaries.

They don’t want your questions.

They don’t want to hear that something doesn’t feel right.

They love the Crab when she’s nurturing them.

They forget she has claws.

Don’t ask me to dim the very thing you come looking for when your world gets dark.

That’s something I’m learning about spirituality too.

People use words like spirituality, religion, witchcraft, occult practices and cults as though they’re all interchangeable.

They’re not.

There may be similarities—rituals, symbols, communities, spiritual authority and beliefs about things we cannot see.

But discernment matters.

Who benefits from what I’m being asked to believe?

Am I allowed to question it?

Does this make me more myself, or does it require me to surrender myself?

Funny enough, those are the same questions I’ve learned to ask about relationships.

Can I still be me here?

Because some people don’t actually want you to be completely yourself.

They want enough of you to benefit from you.

That’s different.

Maybe this is why I called it Between Moon and Water.

I’ve spent my entire life somewhere between the two.

The Moon changing phases.

The water absorbing everything around it.

Gemini asking questions.

Pisces feeling things I can’t always explain.

Cancer deciding whether to nurture you or retreat into her shell.

That little girl with the moon-shaped face didn’t know any of those words.

She just knew some people made her tired.

Some people didn’t feel safe.

Some rooms felt heavy.

Some relationships made her question herself.

She didn’t know about houses, placements, intuition, nervous systems, spiritual awakenings or energetic boundaries.

She just knew what she felt.

The woman she became finally has language for some of it.

Not answers for all of it.

And maybe I don’t need answers for all of it.

Maybe spirituality isn’t supposed to make me certain about everything.

Maybe it’s teaching me to question what I feel without abandoning it.

How to listen without automatically believing every thought.

How to love without giving everyone access.

How to be compassionate without becoming responsible for everybody’s pain.

How to recognize darkness without convincing myself that I have to carry it.

And how to protect myself without apologizing for it.

I’m still learning.

Still questioning.

Still feeling.

Still changing phases.

Still figuring out what belongs to me and what I need to put back down.

Maybe that’s what Between Moon and Water really is.

A place for the woman I became to finally listen to the little girl who always felt everything.

A place where I don’t have to choose between spirituality and skepticism.

Between softness and boundaries.

Between intuition and reason.

Between the Twins and the Crab.

Between what I know and what I may never be able to explain.

I’m somewhere between the Moon and the water.

And for the first time, I’m learning how to live there.

Coop!!