Broken Open by the Moon's Light

"There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls." - George Carlin

As I sit under the heavy pull of the full moon, in a circle lit only by her light and the flame of my willingness, it hits me—I am here, alone. Not by choice, but by necessity. This is no circle of wise women or elders to hold me. It’s just me, staring into the chaos of my own unraveling. The raw humanness of my broken heart spills out, mingling with the shadowy fragments of the life I thought I had lived.

It feels as though the whole universe is leaning in, holding its breath as I dare to inch closer to the truth of who I am. Perhaps even the moon herself is watching, her light a relentless witness to my messy, fragile becoming.

The pain of our separation, though quieter now, still lives in my bones. It whispers in the hollows of my chest where I once built walls too high for love to scale. But in the soft glow of this moonlit moment, I realized something that felt both terrifying and freeing: those walls didn’t keep me safe. They only kept me small. Now, as grace moves through the cracks, I see the truth—there is no safety in staying hidden, no refuge in pretending to be someone I’m not. The only way forward is inward, toward the center of my own soul. A pilgrimage I thought I knew, but now I find myself in unfamiliar dark territory.

And fuck, I hate it. Is there no peace in this world? Is the outer world merely a reflection of the fragmented disconnection of what needs healing within my inner world? Am I doomed to circle back to the same question over and over again? Who am I in this brokenness? Who am I, if not the person I thought I had to be?

How many times will I have to dive headfirst into the raging waters of my being, gasping for air as the current of truth pulls me under? How many deaths will it take for me to land on the shores I was always meant to walk? To sing my song. To follow the tracks of my dreamline. To discover what’s been waiting for me all along—the raw, untamed truth of who I am.

The moon doesn’t answer. She just watches, steady and silent. And in her stillness, something begins to stir in me. I realize the ceremony is not about putting myself back together. This isn’t really about me doing anything. That’s my old pattern. This is about me sitting here in the mess, the wreckage of my own undoing, and daring to let grace enter me exactly as I am.

Human life, I’ve realized, is full of questions—ones we try to avoid, outrun, or drown in the noise of busy lives. Why does it hurt so much? What is this all for? But sitting here, I see the truth I’ve always known but resisted facing: When I die, the real questions of life won’t be about what I achieved or how well I performed. They will be about who I was at my core. Did I live as myself? Did I dare to become the person I was meant to be, not the one I was told to be? Did I have the courage to strip away the layers, to uncover my truth, and to love myself fully, in all my rawness?

And God, it terrifies me. Because the truth is, I haven’t always lived as myself. I’ve worn masks so long they felt like skin. I’ve played small to fit into spaces that couldn’t hold me. I’ve shut my heart so tightly it forgot how to feel. And yet, here I am, stripped of all those false selves, staring into the moon’s unblinking eye and realizing that this is the beginning of me. Not the polished version. Not the one that’s ready to present to the world. Just me—raw, messy, scared, but still here.

Terrified of letting go, of allowing the part of me that clings to safety to finally die—the part begging me to step aside so I can fully come alive, to live as me. Can I break open wide enough to trust that in this death, my truth will spill out, raw and uncontained?

The moon shifts, her light softening as if to whisper: Keep going. And so I do. I sit with the questions, the grief, the rage, and let them wash over me. I feel the weight of all the times I didn’t choose myself, the love I didn’t give because I was afraid, and the tracks I didn’t walk because they felt too uncertain. And yet, I also feel something else: a quiet stirring, a knowing.

The answers I seek aren’t out there—they’ve been here all along, woven into the fabric of who I am. Waiting for me to stop running, stop fixing, and start listening.

This is the hardest part—listening. Not to the world or its expectations but to the voice inside me, the one that’s been whispering all along: You are enough. You are allowed to take up space. You are here to become, not to please, not to perform, but to live as fully, deeply, and authentically as you can.

So here I am, in this moonlit moment, making a vow—not to be better, braver, or stronger, but to be me. To walk this messy, unmarked path toward the truth of my own soul. To let the love I’m learning to give—first to myself and then to others—be enough.

This isn’t the end of the story. It’s not even the middle. It’s the terrifying beginning of something I can’t yet name. As the moon watches, I whisper back to her a confession—that I am scared for what lies ahead. Am I doomed to this cycle, will I live the rest of my life alone, what if I become … but do not belong?

Yet I also know, regardless of the answers to those questions, I am more afraid of turning back to what I was than stumbling forward into the unknown.

Stepping into my truth feels like a death—a death of who I was, of the safety I thought I needed, of the masks that once made me belong. So I will keep going. Even if it kills me. Because maybe, just maybe, it will also set me free.

And maybe, just maybe, the world will rise to meet me there.