Growing up in the evangelical fold, I was taught that pressure was a sign of spiritual warfare. You brace, you pray, you wait for the storm to pass. But deconstruction taught me that storms don’t just pass. They rearrange the furniture. Carl Jung called it the collective unconscious—this deep reservoir of shared anxieties, archetypes, and unspoken grief that surfaces when the veil gets thin. Eclipses, in my experience, act like a pressure valve. They don’t cause the tension, but they definitely turn up the volume.

I keep pulling The Moon whenever I lay out a spread during these seasons. It’s not about fear, really. It’s about the fog. The way collective mental health fractures when we’re all staring into the same murky water, trying to read reflections that keep shifting. I think we’re collectively holding the 8 of Swords—bound by old narratives, convinced we’re trapped, when the ropes are actually just frayed. You don’t need super strength to step out. You just need to stop believing the illusion.

I’m still figuring out the language for it. My hands know how to unclog pipes, but they’re learning how to unclog energy. Meditation helps. So does just sitting on my balcony, watching the Atlantic swallow the sun, and letting the shadow wash over me without fighting it. If you’re feeling that heavy, quiet drag in your chest right now, you’re not broken. The sky is just adjusting its orbit, and we’re adjusting with it.

How’s the eclipse sitting in your chest? What’s coming up for you when you pull a card right now?