There was a period of my life where I ran a blog called The Problem With Dating, and half a million people worldwide followed me on that journey.
I wrote about situationships, and emotionally unavailable men, and the specific exhaustion of being someone who loved deeply in a world that seemed allergic to it.
I was perceptive. I was articulate. I could diagnose an anxious attachment pattern from a three-word text.
And yet, I was absolutely, completely focused on everyone but myself.
If you’ve ever finished a relationship—or a situationship, or an almost-relationship, or whatever we’re calling them now—and found yourself doing a forensic analysis of the other person, you know the drill.
You replay the timeline. You identify the red flags you ignored. You talk it through with your friends until the story is so well-worn it practically has a title.
You do the journaling. You read the books. You maybe even go to therapy, or pull your birth chart, or take a Human Design course looking for the explanation that finally makes it make sense.
And then, somehow, you end up in the same place again. Different person. Same feeling.
I don’t remember the exact moment it hit me, but I remember the quality of it—the way certain truths arrive quietly, without drama, which somehow makes them harder to dismiss.
I was the common denominator.
Not in a punishing way. Not in the way my inner critic would have loved to run with it.
But in a simple, almost mathematical way—every relationship I had ever been in, I had been in. Every dynamic I kept finding myself in, I had helped build. Every person I had chosen, I had chosen.
And when you have that many eyes on you and people who praise your work, your humanity becomes overshadowed by the self-inflicted pressure of being who everyone else expects you to be.
Wise. Grounded. Someone who knows her shit. And yet, here we go again. Cue the imposter syndrome.
I won’t pretend that wasn’t humbling. There’s a particular kind of embarrassment that comes with realizing you’ve been the author of your own suffering—especially when you’re someone who has read all the books and done all the work and still managed to miss it. It can feel like a failure on top of a failure.
But underneath the embarrassment was something else entirely. Something that felt, against all odds, like relief.
Because if I was the problem, I was also the solution.
Here’s what I want to say to you, because I think it’s the part nobody talks about honestly…
Knowing this did not magically fix it.
I spent years after that realization still repeating the same patterns. Not because I wasn’t self-aware enough—I was almost annoyingly self-aware. I could see exactly what I was doing, sometimes even while I was doing it, and I still couldn’t seem to stop. I used to think that meant something was fundamentally wrong with me. That I was broken in some way that insight couldn’t reach.
But that wasn’t it at all.
The problem wasn’t that I didn’t know. The problem was that knowing and doing are completely different muscles—and I had spent years developing one while the other quietly atrophied. Awareness without the capacity to act on it isn’t transformation. It’s just a more sophisticated form of being stuck.
What I actually needed wasn’t more information about myself. I needed to build the part of myself that could take everything I knew and finally, actually, move differently.
That’s what I kept coming back to when I was building the Dark Side of the Moon workshop.
Not another framework for understanding your patterns (you probably already understand them), but a real, held space to do the thing that comes after understanding. To meet the parts of yourself that have been running the show from the shadows, and to start, slowly, to change your relationship with them.
If you’ve done the therapy and read the books and pulled the charts and still feel like something isn’t shifting—this is for you. Not because you haven’t tried hard enough. But because you might be ready for the next part.
Your Moon sign doesn’t just describe how you feel. It maps your unconscious—the emotional survival strategies you developed before you had words for them, the patterns you inherited from your mother, the parts of yourself you learned to hide, exile, or perform depending on who was watching.
That’s the dark side. And that’s where the real work is.
In this 90-minute live workshop, we’ll move through your Moon sign (you’ll need to know your birth date, birth location and if possible, birth time, but it’s OK if you don’t), its shadow expression, its house placement, and the mother wound it carries—layer by layer, with honesty and without judgment.
You’ll walk away with:
A clear understanding of your Moon sign’s gifts and its shadow—including the unconscious habits borrowed from your sister sign
Insight into where and with whom your emotional patterns show up most (relationships, work, safety-seeking behaviors)
A map of the early emotional programming you inherited—and what it looks like to start rewriting it
Practical shadow work tools you can use immediately: prompts, lunar cycle practices, and somatic awareness techniques
A resource handout to find and decode your Moon placement if you’re brand new to astrology
This isn’t an astrology lecture. It’s a guided excavation into your emotional underworld.
You already know the problem isn’t always them. The quietly terrifying, quietly liberating thing is—you’ve known for a while.
And just like everything else, this knowing is asking you to do something with it.
Xo
P.S. Don’t forget to join us for Shadow Work Through Tarot & Poetry on April 1, where we’ll dive into the shadows of Libra.