I alphabetized my spice rack twice last week.
Not because it needed it. Because sitting with "I don't know what I'm feeling right now" was so uncomfortable that my body needed to sort something. Anything. Give me cumin before oregano. Give me a system. Give me one thing I can organize while everything inside me refuses to organize itself.
And I know you know what I'm talking about. That feeling where the grief is right there and the hope is right there and they're sitting in the same chest and your whole nervous system is screaming at you to pick one. To figure out which feeling is the "real" one. To categorize it. Name it. Put it in a box. Move on.
But it won't sort. And the reason it won't sort is the whole point of tonight.
This New Moon in Pisces, five planets in the water, the very last breath before Aries season resets the wheel in two days, is not asking you to set intentions. You've heard me say that by now. But what I haven't said, what I've been circling for weeks, is what it's actually asking instead.
It's asking you to hold the AND.
Grief AND joy. Anger AND tenderness. Exhaustion AND hope. The part of you that wants to burn it all down AND the part that still believes something beautiful is possible. Not one or the other. Both. At the same time. In the same body.
Your nervous system was trained to sort experience into categories since you were a kid. Good feeling, bad feeling. Problem, solution. Safe, not safe. That sorting kept you alive. It's your survival operating system. And what this Moon is inviting, what the North Node in Pisces is pointing toward as the actual growth edge, is to temporarily suspend that sorting. To teach your body that ambiguity is not the same thing as danger.
That's the real Pisces invitation. Not "let go." Not "trust the universe." Can you stand in a room with every feeling at once and not collapse into picking one?
We've been sold a lie about emotional clarity.
That healing means feeling one thing at a time. That grief has stages you move through in order, like levels in a game, and you arrive at acceptance like there's a welcome mat waiting. But your body knows the truth. The grief and the gratitude have always lived in the same room. The fury and the softness share the same chest. You've just been told one of them shouldn't be there.
The prism doesn't add colors to light. It reveals what was always inside it. Red anger. Orange survival. Yellow curiosity. Green growth pushing through soil you can't see. Blue knowing that doesn't need to prove itself. Every color was always there. You just couldn't see them separately because you were too busy trying to decide which one was real.
They're all real. Every color. Every feeling. The sadness doesn't cancel the celebration. The rage doesn't erase the softness. And the willingness to carry all of it forward, not sorted, not fixed, just held? That's the seed. That's what you're planting tonight.
And look, I don't say this from some mountain.
I say it from the floor of my soul surrounded by spice jars. I'm learning this alongside you. The both/and is not something I've mastered. It's something I practice. Badly. Often while reorganizing things that don't need reorganizing.
But every time I stop sorting and just sit in the "I don't know," something shows up. Not an answer. Something more like a color. Oh, there's sadness in here. And also excitement. And they're in the same place. And I don't have to pick which one is the real one. They're both the real one.
For an extended breakdown, check out my latest Youtube transmission.
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Oh! And tonight we're sitting with this together inside The Collective. The workshop is at 8 PM ET. We're going deeper into the nervous system piece, the prism, the full spectrum. There's journaling. A guided meditation. And 30 minutes of open shares where you get to say out loud what you've been holding alone. Your rising sign horoscopes are already live in there too, specific to where this New Moon is landing in your chart, in your actual life.
If this email hit something, the workshop is where you sit with it in community.
CuĂdense mucho.
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