Yesterday marked ten years since my grandma left this plane of existence. And the universe, in its infinite fucking wisdom, decided to mark the occasion with some of the heaviest cosmic energy we've seen in years.
A karmic eclipse—the kind that forces you to reckon with patterns you've been repeating, the kind that demands you look at what you've been carrying that was never yours to hold. Venus returning from Pluto's underworld—love transformed through darkness, relationships that died and came back different, the kind of energy that asks "what did you learn while you were down there?" And all this talk about intuition cracking wide open, about ancient knowing surfacing, about love expanding in ways that don't look like the fairy tale but feel more real than anything that does.
Coincidence? Maybe. But I don't really believe in those anymore.
My grandma would've loved this. Not the sadness, not the mourning—she'd have zero patience for that. But the cosmic timing? The fact that the universe decided to throw down these specific energies on her decade marker? She'd be cackling somewhere, probably with a joint in one hand and her arms thrown wide, going, "See? I told you. The universe always knows."
Because these aren't random energies. They're the exact frequencies she lived her entire life in—the reckoning, the transformation through love, the trusting of inner knowing even when it made no logical sense.
She Was Unapologetically Everything
My grandma called herself an old squaw—she was part Cherokee, I think, though honestly I can't remember now which tribe exactly. What I do remember is that she gave zero shits about being what anyone expected. Pot-smoking, bra-burning, motorcycle-riding hippie who couldn't cook to save her soul but could make you snicker at the most inappropriate moments with just a little comment dropped into conversation like a hand grenade.
I used to joke that I needed to borrow someone else's grandma to make me cookies. She wasn't that kind of grandmother. She was the kind who, when your dumbass younger self asks what "giving head" means, pulls a fucking carrot out of the fridge for a visual demonstration.
That's who she was. No filter. No shame. No pretending to be smaller or quieter or more acceptable than she actually was.
She had a motorcycle accident in her running days—before I knew her, before she became the woman on all those meds that probably counteracted each other more than they helped. But even then, even with a body that had been through shit, even with pain that would've broken most people, she was herself. Fully. Loudly. Magnificently.
I like to think I get that from her. That inability to be anything other than exactly who I am, even when it costs me. Even when people tell me I'm too much, too intense, too everything. I come by it honestly.
What the Universe Is Asking Right Now
Here's the thing about the energies moving through right now—they're not gentle.
Karmic eclipses clear the decks. They force you to look at patterns you keep repeating, roles that don't fit anymore, baggage you're carrying that was never yours. They expose truth and demand you do something about it.
Venus returning from Pluto is love that's been through the underworld. Relationships that died and came back transformed. It asks: what did you learn in the dark? Are you brave enough to bring it into the light?
The intuition opening is the universe turning up the volume on your inner knowing. All the things you've been sensing but dismissing, feeling but second-guessing, seeing but not trusting—this energy says trust it.
These energies together: release what's false, embrace what's real, trust what you know, transform through love.
That frequency? That was my grandma's entire fucking existence.
The Lesson She Gave Me Before She Left
Poppy went first. Pancreatic cancer. Fast as fuck. We all kind of thought Grandma would go first—with all those meds, with the way her body had been breaking down—but none of us wanted to say it out loud. Like speaking it would make it true, would make us complicit in wishing it.
After Poppy passed, she just... stopped. Like someone cut the strings holding her upright. She was still here, but she wasn't. She was already halfway gone, already reaching for him.
And then one day, a day or two before she died, I cried in front of her. I couldn't help it. The grief was too big, the knowing was too heavy, and I broke.
She looked at me with those eyes—the ones that saw everything, that cut through bullshit like a hot knife through butter—and she said something that has lived in my bones ever since:
"Why be sad? Why cry for me? I get to go and be with your Poppy. I get to be with who I love. I get to be happy." She thought I was being a little selfish.
And that part that really fucking landed:
Being sad like that is selfish.
I don't know if I fully understood it then, or when the moment was that my mind clarified that statement. It was selfish. My sadness wasn't about her suffering—she was done suffering. My sadness was about my loss. My greed. My wanting to keep her here when she was ready to go somewhere better.
Funerals are for the living. Grief is for the living. She knew that. She gave me permission to let her go, and she called me out for holding on when holding on was only about me.
That's some witchy, cosmic, brutally honest shit right there. And it's exactly the kind of truth she'd deliver with a smile, like she was giving you a gift even as it gutted you.
The Universe Has a Sense of Timing
I've been thinking a lot lately about timing. About how the universe moves in cycles, in rhythms we don't always see until it's either too late or until they're right on top of us.
Ten years is significant in cosmic terms. It's not arbitrary. It's a full cycle of growth and integration. It's long enough to have learned the lesson, integrated the loss, become someone different. Long enough that you're not the same person who first experienced the grief. Long enough that you can look back and see the pattern instead of just feeling the pain.
And the universe is bringing these specific energies—karmic reckoning, love transformed through darkness, intuition cracking open—right at that ten-year marker. Right when I'm far enough from the wound to see what it taught me. Right when I'm ready to receive what she was actually showing me.
The energies aren't here by accident. They're here because this is when we're ready to understand them.
A karmic eclipse ten years after losing the woman who lived in constant karmic release. Venus returning from Pluto's underworld a decade after watching love be powerful enough to choose death. Intuition expanding exactly when I'm finally trusting my own knowing the way she always trusted hers.
All this energy around reckoning with what we've been carrying, around letting transformation happen through love, around trusting what we know even when we can't prove it.
And it's landing exactly ten years after the woman who taught me about all of that—who showed me what it looks like to release what doesn't serve you, to let love transform you, to trust your inner knowing—left to go be with the man she loved.
She believed in the universe the way I do. In karma. In the mystical and crazy aspects of life that make people uncomfortable but feel more true than anything rational ever could. She believed that love was the point. Not romantic love only—though she and Poppy had that in spades—but love. The kind that shows up for people, that sees them, that refuses to let them feel alone even when they're being ridiculous. The kind of love that doesn't shrink anyone, the kind that sees who you are when no one else is around.
She loved hard. She loved weird. She loved in ways that didn't make sense to people who needed love to look a certain way.
And now, ten years later, the cosmos is throwing down this wild, intense energy about love expanding, about returning from the underworld, about karmic reckonings, about trusting what you know.
It feels meant. Like the universe is saying, "Hey, remember that woman who taught you everything? Here's a reminder. Here's the lesson again in case you forgot. Here's the energy she lived in, turned all the way up, so you can finally understand what she was showing you." And I only realized that today. All the things that my grandma believed in and then ten years later realizing when she stopped, when she let go- and why... That was definitely meant to be. Gives a whole other meaning to 'written in the stars'
It's come up a lot lately—death, grief, loss. Quite a few of my friends have lost people very close and dear to them, two very recently. And I've seen their face hold that fresh, raw part of grief where everything feels impossible and nothing makes sense yet steady and unwavering, as its another tension to build up and combust.
I know things now I didn't know ten years ago. Things my grandma gave me when she said what she said. But knowing those things doesn't make it easier to watch people I care about go through it. Sometimes it makes it harder because I remember exactly how that feels—the suffocation, the disbelief, the way time moves both too fast and too slow.
I've told them about her. I've told everyone lol. About what she said. Not as some fix-it wisdom, not as a way to make them feel better faster, but just as—here's what someone once told me, and it didn't stop the hurt but it meant something. It gave me a framework. It gave me permission to grieve without drowning. I shared this with my children as they were growing and I can only hope that it has helped them.
And maybe that's part of the cycle too. Maybe the universe knows that when we're ten years out, we're finally far enough from the wound to hold space for someone else's. Maybe that's what Venus coming back from Pluto means—returning from the depths with something valuable, something hard-won, something we can offer.
Grandma would've liked that. The idea that our pain isn't wasted, that it turns into something we can give.
The Cosmic Reflection: Who She Was, Who I Am
Looking at the cosmic energy right now feels like looking at my grandma in a mirror.
Karmic eclipses expose patterns we keep repeating, baggage we're carrying that was never ours, roles that don't fit anymore. They force release. They demand honesty. That was my grandma's entire operating system—she didn't carry grudges or replay old hurts. She just moved through life releasing what didn't serve her, holding tight to what mattered. She lived in constant karmic reckoning without ever calling it that.
Venus coming back from Pluto's underworld is love transformed through death and darkness. Love that went to the worst places and came back different—not broken, changed. Deeper. More real. That was her and Poppy. Their love wasn't sanitized greeting-card bullshit. It was messy and real and deep as hell. When he died, she didn't fight it. She went into that underworld with him, let it transform her, then followed him all the way through. Love as the ultimate transformation.
The Cosmic Reflection: Who She Was, Who I Am
Looking at the cosmic energy right now feels like looking at my grandma in a mirror.
Karmic eclipses expose patterns we keep repeating, baggage we're carrying that was never ours, roles that don't fit anymore. They force release. They demand honesty. That was my grandma's entire operating system—she didn't carry grudges or replay old hurts. She just moved through life releasing what didn't serve her, holding tight to what mattered. She lived in constant karmic reckoning without ever calling it that.
Venus coming back from Pluto's underworld is love transformed through death and darkness. Love that went to the worst places and came back different—not broken, changed. Deeper. More real. That was her and Poppy. Their love wasn't sanitized greeting-card bullshit. It was messy and real and deep as hell. When he died, she didn't fight it. She went into that underworld with him, let it transform her, then followed him all the way through. Love as the ultimate transformation.
The intuition cracking open is ancient knowing surfacing. Trusting what you know even when you can't explain how. Seeing beneath the surface. She lived there constantly—trusted her gut, knew things about people before they revealed themselves, felt the energies in every room. She loved big and wild because her intuition told her that was the point, and she didn't need anyone's validation.
These energies aren't new. The universe is just turning up the volume on frequencies that have always been there.
My grandma was always dialed into that station.
I inherited her Moon-on-the-Ascendant energy even if our charts are different. I feel everything. I see beneath the surface. I scare people off just by being fully myself. But I also love hard, give everything, refuse to do surface-level anything.
That's her legacy. Not the pot-smoking or the bra-burning or the inability to cook—though those are great too. Her legacy is the refusal to be anything other than fully herself. The belief that love is the point. The understanding that the universe is always moving, always shifting, always offering us chances to see ourselves more clearly if we're brave enough to look.
Ten Years of Living the Energies
I've been living through these exact energies for the past ten years without naming them.
The karmic reckoning—shedding relationships that only worked when I stayed small, releasing patterns that suffocated me. The Venus-Pluto journey—love transformed through darkness, my heart broken open and rebuilt, my understanding of connection completely rewritten. The intuition opening—learning to trust what I know, to stop apologizing for seeing what others don't.
But here's the biggest shift: I used to need a relationship. Some dude, some partner to validate my existence, to prove I was worth something. I don't anymore.
I learned how to love—truly, deeply love someone for who they actually are. Not just the version they show everyone, but the real person underneath. The messy parts. The broken parts. The parts they try to hide. I learned to see people fully and love them anyway.
And then I learned to do that for myself.
To love myself for who I truly am. Not the polished version. Not the acceptable version. Not the version that's easy for other people to handle. The real version. The one who feels too much and sees too deep and can't do shallow. The one who's intense and complicated and doesn't fit into neat boxes.
That's the Venus-Pluto work. Love that goes into the underworld and comes back transformed. Love that strips away all the bullshit and finds what's real underneath. Love that doesn't need external validation because it's rooted in something deeper.
The energies aren't introducing me to something new. They're confirming what I've already been living. Validating the work. Saying: yes, this is it, keep going, trust it.
Maybe that's what the ten-year marker is really about. Not just mourning her loss, but recognizing I've spent a decade becoming someone who could finally understand what she was teaching me. Someone who's ready to stop apologizing for being unapologetically myself.
What I'm Carrying Forward
So here I am, ten years later, with two friends in fresh grief and a cosmic sky that's basically screaming about transformation and love and karmic reckonings.
And I'm thinking about her. About what she'd say if she were here.
She'd probably tell me to stop being so fucking serious about it all. To laugh more. To remember that death isn't the end, it's just a transition. To trust that the universe knows what it's doing even when we can't see the pattern yet.
She taught me grief is okay, sadness is natural, but not to make it a prison. Don't hold on so tight to the loss that you forget the love. Don't let the grief become bigger than the person you're grieving.
Someone said something to me recently about how we spend our whole lives competing, chasing this version of success that's been drilled into our heads since childhood. Climbing ladders. Accumulating things. Proving ourselves. Fighting to be more, have more, achieve more.
And for what? We end up just like everything else. Just like the bugs. Just like the trees. Just like every living thing that's ever existed.
We die.
That's the great equalizer. The CEO and the homeless person. The famous and the forgotten. The ones who "made it" and the ones who didn't. We all end up in the same place. The universe doesn't care about your resume or your bank account or how many people knew your name.
My grandma knew this. She would have agreed. That's why she didn't waste time chasing conventional success. She didn't give a fuck about what she was supposed to want or supposed to be. She focused on what actually mattered: love, connection, being fully herself, trusting the universe, enjoying the ride.
She understood that we're here for a blink. A tiny moment in cosmic time. And spending that blink trying to impress people or meet some manufactured standard of achievement is the real tragedy.
The cosmic energies right now are asking us the same thing: what are you carrying that doesn't actually matter? What are you chasing that won't mean anything when you're gone? What version of success are you killing yourself for that has nothing to do with who you actually are?
Because in the end, we're all just temporary. Just like bugs. Just like everything.
The only thing that survives is how we loved, how we showed up, and if we could be our raw, true selves.
And she'd probably pull out another fucking carrot or something equally absurd to make us laugh through the tears. Because that's who she was.
Ten years. These specific cosmic energies. Venus returning. Intuition expanding. Love being asked to transform.
I don't think it's a coincidence. I think it's a reminder.
The universe is saying: this is who she was, this is what she taught you, this is the frequency she lived in—now it's your turn to fully claim it.
Love is the point. The universe always knows. Release what's false. Trust what you feel. Don't let it scare you. Let transformation happen. Becuase when you can truly own yourself, and not shrink yourself for the comfort of others- thats when the real magic can happen. And the people who loved us unapologetically, who taught us to be ourselves even when it's hard, who gave us permission to let go when it was time—they don't really leave.
They just shift planes. And sometimes the cosmos throws down these massive energies to remind us they're still here still teaching, still loving us from wherever the fuck they are now. Still showing us the way home to ourselves.
Thanks for the reminder, Grandma. And thanks for the carrot story. That shit still makes me laugh.
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