When life feels like it’s eating me alive, I usually try to hustle my way out of it.
But lately? My hustle isn’t cutting it. Nothing is.
So I did what any burned-out, overwhelmed, half-feral woman with a wedding to plan and a partner just out of the hospital might do. I booked a reading with my astrology teacher.
Her name’s Kim. She’s my mentor, my go-to when my own chart feels too close to decode. I went through her astrology school (which I highly recommend, by the way), so yes, I can read my own chart. But sometimes you need someone else to connect the dots for you when your brain’s on fire like mine currently is.
So we met. And wow, did the stars have something to say…
My Uranus Opposition: Time to Shake Shit Up
This is the astrological equivalent of a plot twist wrapped in an identity crisis, dipped in existential dread.
I’m officially entering my Uranus opposition, aka the cosmic “WTF am I doing with my life?” transit. It kicks off in July when Uranus moves into Gemini and begins its slow-motion showdown with my natal Uranus in Sagittarius. Kim, in her calm astrology-teacher voice, called it a soft launch. I, in my emotionally unhinged voice, call it: Why does everything feel like it’s breaking, and I suddenly want to move to the woods and grow lavender for a living?
For context, the Uranus opposition hits everyone sometime between their late 30s and early 40s. It’s astrology’s version of the midlife crisis, but instead of buying a yacht or getting bangs, you start questioning literally everything: your job, your relationships, your identity, your path, your purpose…and your sanity.
It’s not subtle.
It doesn’t whisper.
It screams.
And it doesn’t just last a weekend. This transit can span years. It starts with a slow unraveling, like something inside you knows what used to work just…doesn’t anymore. Your skin doesn’t fit the same. You look around and think, “I built all this, but was I even awake when I did it?”
Uranus is the planet of rebellion, revolution, and truth bombs. When it opposes its natal position, it acts like a defibrillator. It zaps you into alignment…whether you’re ready or not. It’s not asking for tweaks. It’s asking for a total fucking overhaul.
And I’m already in it.
I feel it in my body. In my burnout. In my boredom. In the way I look at my inbox and want to set my laptop on fire. In the way I keep saying, “I don’t want to do any of this anymore,” even though “this” used to be the thing I thought I wanted.
This isn’t just restlessness. It’s spiritual labor pains. Something new is coming. And apparently, I don’t get to stay who I was to get there.
Ready or not…here we go.
Moon in Leo in the 10th House: Career Is Personal
My Moon is in Leo. In the 10th house.
For the astrology newbies, that basically means this: my emotional well-being is tied directly to my career. Like, uncomfortably so.
Some people clock in, clock out, and leave their identity at the door. I’m not built that way. My work isn’t just what I do. It’s how I feel safe, seen, and valued. It’s where I go to prove (over and over again) that I matter. That I have a place. That I can build something that no one can take from me.
But right now? That foundation feels cracked.
Since losing a steady tech job in early 2024, I’ve been cobbling together contracts…some podcast production, some social media strategy, some tech writing. I’ve been in full-on survival mode. Think: Frankenstein-ing income sources just to pay bills and keep up appearances.
And sure, I can do it. I am doing it.
But every day feels like another tiny betrayal of what I actually want.
Every project I take just to keep the lights on chips away at me.
The Leo Moon in me wants to be proud of what I do. It wants to feel inspired, aligned, and yes, celebrated. It craves passion, purpose, and recognition. But instead, I feel like I’m showing up to a life I don’t remember choosing. Like I’m playing the role of “the capable one” while quietly drowning behind the scenes.
And because it’s my Moon we’re talking about, this doesn’t just mess with my confidence; it messes with my nervous system. My sleep. My body. My ability to feel joy.
This isn’t just burnout. It’s disconnection. From myself. From my calling. From the version of me that used to feel lit up by creating, building, and helping.
My 10th house Moon is screaming for something that actually means something.
And I’m tired of pretending that just being good at something is enough to keep doing it.
Something’s got to give. And maybe that something is me.
Taurus North Node: Chill the Fuck Out
This one hit hard. Sob-quietly-while-nodding hard.
According to my birth chart, my soul’s mission in this lifetime is to *slow the hell down*. To step out of the chaos and into the calm. To choose stability over drama, pleasure over productivity, and embodiment over burnout.
My North Node is in Taurus, in the 6th house. Which means I’m supposed to be building a life that is grounded, simple, sensual, and aligned with daily rituals that actually support me, not strip me down.
But here’s the problem: I have zero chill.
I’m not wired for it. Or at least, I wasn’t taught how to be.
I move fast.
I think faster.
I finish tasks before my body even realizes I started them.
Even my so-called “self-care” comes with a checklist. Take bathtime for example: I’ll run a bath because I think I’m doing something relaxing, but the second I get in, I’m already mentally checking boxes: wash hair, shave legs, exfoliate, condition, rinse, get out. I don’t actually soak. I don’t sit still. I don’t unwind. I just treat it like another task to complete before rushing back to whatever I was doing. It’s like my body forgot how to just be in water without turning it into a productivity sprint.
And when life gets too loud, which it has, over and over again lately, I find myself longing for the only kind of chill I used to understand: the chemically induced kind. Drinking. Numbing. Zoning out. Sobriety has forced me to sit with a body that never learned how to rest. And honestly? It’s been brutal.
But Kim reminded me: this isn’t just about bubble baths and unplugging.
This is healing work.
This is nervous system repair.
This is soul retrieval.
Taurus doesn’t ask for grand gestures. It asks for presence.
It asks you to put your feet in the grass. To taste your food. To touch soft things. To move slowly, on purpose. To say no to things that steal your peace and yes to things that nourish it…even if they look “lazy” from the outside.
Slowness isn’t indulgent.
It’s sacred.
And in my case, it’s unfortunately required.
My Scorpio South Node is full of survival mode and high-alert trauma response. It’s all control, intensity, and emotional entanglement. But Taurus says: Let that go.
Come back to your body. To this moment. To the small, beautiful things.
It’s not easy.
But it’s the path.
And I guess I’m finally ready to walk it. Barefoot.
The Tarot Didn’t Hold Back Either
As if the stars weren’t enough, Kim and I pulled some cards too…because sometimes you need your ass kicked by both the planets and the deck.
We pulled three tarot cards. And wow. They came in hot.
The Wheel of Fortune
The tides are turning. Change is inevitable. It’s a reminder that I’m not in control here, at least not in the way my anxiety wants me to be. This card is the pivot. The shift. The “everything is about to be different whether you’re ready or not” kind of energy. It felt like confirmation that this chaotic, in-between season isn’t random; it’s the necessary turning of the wheel.
The Ace of Swords
Truth. Clarity. Sharp edges. This card called out the mental noise I’ve been drowning in: obsessing, overthinking, trying to logic my way out of an emotional and spiritual breakdown. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s the part of healing that requires a scalpel, not a salve. Something has to be cut away. Some lies I’ve believed—about who I have to be, how I have to work, what I’m worth—have got to go.
The Star
And then, relief. The Star is hope. It’s the deep exhale after the breakdown. It’s a hand on your shoulder saying, “You’re not lost. You’re becoming.” It reminded me that healing doesn’t always feel magical in the moment, but something beautiful can still come from all this mess. And it usually does.
And because the universe loves a mic drop, we also pulled an Oracle card that basically shouted:
Trust your intuition.
Like, cool. Got it. Loud and clear.
The cards didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know…but they gave language to what I’ve been feeling in my bones. They confirmed that even though this path is murky and uncomfortable, I’m not actually lost. I’m just walking through the fog toward a version of myself I haven’t met yet.
And apparently? She’s waiting on the other side with a candle lit.
So What Now?
Kim gave me a few soul-assignments, and I’m giving them to myself again here so I don’t forget:
- Stop forcing. Start listening. Pull a card every morning. Let that be the guide.
- Make a new vision board. Not a Pinterest-perfect, intention-manifesting boss-bitch board. A messy, intuitive collage. Rip up magazines and glue what feels good.
- Do something with your hands. Color. Paint. Build a miniature. It doesn’t need to make money. It just needs to make space.
- Get witchy again. Actually do the candle spell. Ask your guides for help. Pull the cards. Light the damn incense.
- Let your business evolve. I’m not starting from scratch. I’m shapeshifting. Maybe I’m not just a podcast producer or a social media marketer. Maybe I’m a witch who works in tech?
Final Thoughts
This reading wasn’t a forecast. It was a permission slip.
It’s my permission to stop performing.
Permission to grieve the season I’m leaving behind.
Permission to trust that the thing I want to do (but can’t quite name yet) is already unfolding…even if I can’t see the whole picture.
So if you’re also in this weird, foggy state of languishing: burned out, stuck, and barely holding it together, you’re not alone. It’s okay to pause. (And maybe hit up Kim for your own reading while you’re at it.)
The stars aren’t asking me to sprint.
They’re asking me to feel.
And I think I have to be ready to try.