Born In the Dark.

There is a night each year when the sky folds in on itself, when the darkness becomes a kind of prayer, and the moon, new, unseen, becomes the keeper of all unspoken things. The Scorpio New Moon, does not arrive gently. It does not bow to comfort or sentimentality. it comes as the quiet implosion, a sacred ruptuer, a soft funeral for everything you’ve clung to past its time.

This is the moon that demands truth. This is the moon that strips you to bone. This is the moon that invites resurrection.

You stand at the edge of this night with nine years behind you; nine years of echoes and rerun, nine years of familiar faces wearing different names, nine years of lessons disguised as lovers, of teachers masquerading as soulmates, of patterns looping like incantations you didn’t know you were reciting. You have loved, but the love was never the kind offered freely. it was the kind that extracted, revealed, exposed. The kind that served as a mirror more than a sanctuary. the kind that pressed you into a deeper version of yourself even as it hurt.

For nine years the universe has handed you people who never came to stay. they came as messengers, as catalysts, as lanterns for the parts of you you refused to see. they were the curriculum of your becoming, relentless, surgical, necessary. and though you mistook them for long term chapters, they were on,y footnotes in your mythology. They taught you what abandonment feels like, what longing tastes like, how betrayal can be both wound and map. but they did not teach you love. Not real love. Not the kind you deserved.

Under this new moon, you are finally ready to understand why. Because the love you’ve been seeking outwards was always a rehearsal for the love you would one day remember how to give yourself. The ritual begins before you realize it. Not with candles or herbs or moon water. The true ritual begins with recognition. with the exquisite, terrifying admission that you have spent nearly a decade searching for someone to choose you while refusing to choose yourself.

You breathe. Sow. Deliberate. You feel the weight of these nine years settle across your shoulders like a shadowed cloaks. Heavy, but familiar. Then you take it off.

In the stillness of the new moon, you see your reflection not as a woman who has been abandoned, but as a woman who has outgrown every ending placed before her. You see the patterns for what it was: not punishment, but initiation. Not karmic cruelty but the universe preparing you for a love too large to be mistaken for anything less than divine.

You were never meant to be completed by another. You were meant to be returned to yourself.

The magic is now about creation; it is about destruction as a gateway to creation. It is the shedding of skins, the burial of versions of you that cannot make the journey forward. you have clung to people who felt familiar; not because they were right, but because they mirrored the wounds you had not yet healed. They demand you to stop romanticising your suffering. it asks you to honour what happened, but not rebuild shrines to the past.

You Bury the ghost of the woman who believed that being chosen was the same as being loved. you Bury the belief that pain equals passion. You Bury the myth that the right person can save you.

There is a softness in your chest that you don’t immediately recognise. It isn’t innocence; those days are long gone. It isn’t naivety; your scars guard you too well for that. It is something more ancient, more intimate, more holy.

Tenderness toward yourself. The kind you once offered so easily to others. The kind you withheld fro your own heart like punishment. The kind that now returns to you as a birthright.

The ritual continues with the simplest, hardest act. Telling the truth. Not to the people who hurt you; the medicine is it about reopening old doors but to yourself. You speak aloud the desires you silenced to keep others comfortable. You confess the dreams you minimised. You name the hungers you dimmed to be easier to love. You gather every piece of yourself you abandoned for the sake of belonging. And then you call yourself home.

Falling in love with yourself after nine years of lessons is not a cinematic moment. It is quiet and uncomfortable and unbelievably brave. it is waking up and choosing the version of you that does not apologise for her depth. it is letting go of people who only knew how to love the unhealed parts of you. It is speaking gentley to your own heart, even when it trembles. It is recognizing that the universe was not withholding love from you; it was redirecting you back to the source of it.

New beginnings are rarely born from the light. They are conceived in the dark. In the shadows where your truth lives. in the depths where your intuition whispers. In the silence where you heart finally has room to breathe. This new beginning is not about meeting someone new. It is about meeting yourself again; after all these years of thinking she was lost.

You close your eyes. You inhale. You feel the night shift around you, the air thick with intention. you feel the old cycle loosening its grip, the universe unlocking a door you were never ready to open. Until now.