The Knot Beneath My Ribs: A Scorpio Full Moon Confession
“Praise is a ghost I never learned to hold.”
The Full Moon in Scorpio rises—and with it, a tide I can no longer suppress.
Tonight, I felt it again:
That spaghetti knot in my chest, tangled threads of memory and myth—
tightening around my heartstrings like barbed wire soaked in nostalgia and sweat.
I call it what it is: a protector.
A guardian forged in childhood, around the age of seven, when “we don’t have money” was less a sentence and more a spell cast over every meal, every sigh, every silence in the kitchen.
Back then, safety was measured in how many days until rent.
Stress was not an event—it was the atmosphere.
And now?
Now I shake under fluorescent lights when rent is due.
Now I sweat through my shirt when someone says “we can’t afford it.”
Now I can't even feel praise when it’s offered—because my nervous system doesn’t recognize it as real.
Scorpio governs the 8th House—death, trauma, shared resources, emotional entanglement.
She doesn’t flinch at the truth. Neither will I.
I am learning to praise the one who protected me.
The one who clenched. Who froze. Who disassociated.
The one who said, “Shut it down. No time for feelings. Survival first.”
But Scorpio, in her lunar fullness, whispers:
“Survival is not the same as sovereignty.”
So here I am—raw, unraveling.
Not seductive. Not strategic.
Just shaking.
Just seeing.
Just scribing.
Not because I want sympathy.
Because I want to break the curse.
The curse of not hearing praise.
The curse of not knowing when I’ve done enough.
The curse of being so armored against disappointment that I confuse tenderness with danger.
So if you’ve praised me—and I missed it:
Please know it wasn’t you.
It was the imprint. The guardian. The seven-year-old still keeping score on a blackboard that says “you’re only safe when you’re useful.”
But tonight, Scorpio calls me to a different altar.
- I light a candle not for my performance, but for my presence.
- I write not to prove—but to remember.
- I invoke the serpent, not to strike—but to shed.
Ritual for the Reader:
If this touched you, whisper your own name out loud.
Then say: “I praise myself. Even if it trembles.”
Because tonight, the moon doesn’t want your mask.
She wants your marrow.