Tarot Said What?! October’s Giving Orphan Energy

Happy Friday, friends.

So, I sat down with a few decks of my cards, fully intending to do this whole big “October energy forecast” like I had planned weeks ago. But true to form, I just started shuffling with zero intention in my head because apparently my brain thinks staying on task is for other people. And wouldn’t you know it—Spirit showed up anyway, basically rolling Its cosmic eyes like, “Girl, we got this. Sit down and try to pay attention.”

The first three cards that landed were from The Wild Unknown Archetypes: The Storm, The Mentor, and The Lovers. And just as I’m about to dive into them, I realize…oh shit. I never actually said out loud that I was pulling for October energy. Classic rookie move. My brain had wandered off to my new obsession with Thoth tarot, Kabbalah, and all things Gnostic, and I forgot the whole “set your intention” part. I’m just vibing with my cards. So I’m sitting there thinking, did I just blow this reading? And then I look at the bottom of the deck, and there’s The Orphan. I didn’t yet realize how it tied in, and that this was October’s card, until the end of the reading.

I’ll be honest, The Storm showing up first made me a little anxious—chaos, disruption, the kind of shake-ups you can feel in your bones. But fearing the storm doesn’t stop it. The storm is going to do what storms do. All you can do is grab your raincoat and trust that you’ll come out of it a little wiser, a little scrappier. The Mentor right after was a bit of a comfort—like Spirit saying, “Yeah, things are shifting, but you’ve got teachers, guides, structure. You don’t have to wander blind.” And The Lovers? Not about romance this time, but about alignment. Letting the storm crack you open in a way that softens you instead of hardens you.

“Oh great, looks like this is about me. Let’s see if the next cards will save my ass.”

Nope. The Shepherd and the Astronomer showed up from the Citadel deck, which honestly felt like the peanut butter to the jelly. The peas to the carrots. The fries to the milkshake. The Shepherd is about belonging and finding your people, and the Astronomer is about discovery and study, mapping out the bigger picture. Together they basically said, “Don’t just white-knuckle through this. Learn from it, and for God’s sake, don’t isolate. Share what you’re figuring out.”

Of course, me being me, I pulled more cards because apparently I think tarot is an all-you-can-eat buffet. The Universal Waite tarot deck gave me the 7 of Pentacles, 5 of Swords, King of Cups, 5 of Cups, and the Hermit—with the Ace of Cups at the bottom. Which to me said, yeah, this is slow growth, it’s not about winning or being right, it’s about emotional maturity and the patience to get through disappointment without drowning in it. The Hermit is study and solitude, but the Ace of Cups was the wink at the end. Like, if you stick with this, there’s a new wave of love and connection on the other side.

And because I am a dopamine junkie, and I clearly have no self-control, I grabbed a couple oracle decks too. The Intuitive Whispers gave me Time to Shine and Release the Throat. In other words, quit hiding, open your damn mouth, and say the thing. Then the Divine Doors deck handed me Draw Down the Moon—a reminder that this isn’t just study for the mind, it’s a call to embody it, to dance and sing, to sync with the cycles instead of ignoring them.

As I started putting the cards away, The Orphan card jumped out at me. Like October itself had pulled up a chair and said, “Look, this isn’t only your homework assignment. This is everybody’s gut check. Pay attention.”

That was the twist: what started out feeling like a very personal download—me, my path—slowly widened its lens. The personal layers peeled back and what was underneath was way bigger than just me. The Orphan card in living color.

So if I had to sum this whole thing up for you in a text message, it would go something like: “October is giving stormy orphan energy, but don’t freak. It’s not punishment, it’s initiation. You’re being reminded to study, to grow, to connect. Be patient, be kind, and say the damn thing out loud. You’re not actually alone—you just feel like it.”

October isn’t just about pumpkin spice and sexy costumes (though no judgment if that’s your vibe. I love a sexy vampire). It’s about remembering that we’re all walking around with a tiny orphan heart under the surface. The challenge—and the gift—is to choose connection anyway. To huddle up, share the fire, and weather the storm together.

And if you happen to see me on YouTube rambling about Thoth tarot? Well…don’t be surprised. This reading basically dared me.

xo,

Jade

Breaking News: White Claw Canceled After Being Compared to Carbonated Depression

Dear Alcohol,

Sit down. We need to talk.

You and I? We go way back. You were there for my first heartbreak, my last bad haircut, and every questionable karaoke performance in between. For years, I thought you were my wingman — my ride-or-die who made me funnier, braver, and allegedly sexier. (Spoiler: you just made me loud, sweaty, and convinced I could finally prove why Pluto should get its planet card back.)

But lately, you’ve been showing your true colors, and wow… they’re ugly. You leave me feeling like I got hit by a bus, dragged through a Taco Bell parking lot, and dumped in the Lost & Found bin of life. Two days of misery in exchange for three hours of “fun”? That’s not a bargain — that’s a scam. Honestly, you’re worse than those subscription boxes that send me artisanal snacks I didn’t even like.

Let’s be real: you’re toxic. Not in the fun, Britney Spears way. More like black mold in the walls — creeping, destructive, and guaranteed to ruin my vibe. You gaslight me into thinking I “need” you to loosen up, then punish me for trusting you. You’re the ex who still shows up to family events uninvited, acting like everyone missed you. Newsflash: they didn’t.

And while we’re dragging you, let’s address the obvious: you don’t even taste that good. You’re bitter, sour, or weirdly syrupy, depending on your costume of the night. Beer? Tastes like bread water. White Claw? Like someone whispered the name of a fruit over carbonated sadness. Whiskey? Straight-up liquid fire. Wine? Every glass whispers, “hope you like headaches and purple teeth, bitch.” And yet you still have the audacity to act like you’re gourmet. Bad taste, bad aftertaste — honestly, you’re the liquid equivalent of a gas station hot dog.

And let’s talk about your fashion sense. You dress up as champagne at brunch, beer at barbecues, White Claw at the beach — like some shapeshifting con artist. But underneath all the labels and bubbles, you’re the same manipulative little demon juice.

So here it is: I’m done. I’m breaking up with you. Cold. Turkey. Don’t call, don’t text, don’t slide into my DMs with “just one drink.” I’m blocking your number, unfollowing you on Instagram, and sending your hoodies to Goodwill.

You’re not the main character of my story anymore. Hell, you’re not even comic relief. You’re that background extra nobody remembers.

So goodbye, and take your cheap thrills, your overpriced cocktails, and your shitty morning-after apologies with you. I’ve got better things to do than babysit a hangover.

xo,

Jade

Tarot Is Just a Game (And That’s Why It Works)

Here’s a plot twist that might piss off the serious robe-wearing, crystal-polishing crowd: tarot started as a game. Yep. A good old-fashioned deck of cards, shuffled and slapped down for amusement. Not some secret priestess initiation. Not a “divine download” in picture form. Just a game.

And honestly? That makes me love it even more.

Because play is sacred. We forget this. We grow up, start paying bills, get stuck in relationships that feel like wet cardboard, and suddenly our “playtime” is just scrolling TikTok while trying not to hate humanity. But the brain needs play. The spirit needs play. Without it, we calcify into salty barnacles.

Tarot, when you strip away the incense and hashtags, is a way to trick yourself back into play. You shuffle, you lay cards, you squint at the art and start making up stories. That’s what your kid-self used to do with toys, remember? Make stories. See connections. Pretend. Imagine.

A (Very) Brief History of Tarot

Tarot wasn’t born under a pyramid or handed down by some mystical priestess. Sorry, Instagram. The truth is cooler in its own messy way:

• 1400s Italy: Rich families commissioned carte da trionfi decks for playing a trick-taking game. Think less “mystical ceremony,” more “Game Night: Nobility Edition.”

• 1600s France: The Tarot de Marseille locks in the classic suits (cups, swords, wands, coins) and 22 trumps we still recognize today.

• 1700s: Enlightenment occultists get bored and decide tarot is actually a book of ancient Egyptian wisdom. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Total fan fiction.

• 1800s–1900s: Enter the magicians, Freemasons, and mystics. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn stirs it all together. By 1909, the Rider–Waite deck makes tarot less about games, more about guidance.

So, the deck in your hand? It’s got dual citizenship: part party game, part spiritual mirror.

Here’s the kicker: your subconscious actually loves that. Because the shadow doesn’t talk in words. It’s not sitting around drafting emails—it’s sending you symbols, dreams, images, moods. That’s its whole language. And tarot? Tarot just happens to be a ready-made deck of symbols and archetypes—a whole 78-card cast of characters walking through a story about being human, screwing up, getting back up, and trying again.

Even Carl Jung, the guy who gave us the “collective unconscious,” looked at tarot and said, yep, this fits. He called it a “picture gallery of archetypes”—basically a mirror for the psyche. Jung didn’t whip out the Celtic Cross in therapy sessions, but he did use images, mandalas, and symbols to get past the logical brain and into the real juice of the subconscious. Tarot slides right into that same lane, and plenty of Jungian therapists after him have actually used the cards in their work.

So when you pull a card, you’re not getting some cosmic DM from the Universe. You’re giving your subconscious a microphone and a stage prop. Your conscious brain sees The Tower and groans, “Oh god, chaos.” Meanwhile, your subconscious is waving from the back row like, “Hi, yes, that thing you’ve been clinging to? Shut that shit down already.”

That’s the secret sauce. Tarot isn’t just a game—it’s a translator. It lets your conscious and subconscious sit down at the same table, swap stories, and finally get on the same page. I like to refer to them as my spiritual flash cards.

So next time you pull a card, don’t clutch your pearls about “getting it wrong.” Shuffle like you’re about to clean out the neighborhood poker game. Laugh when Death shows up. Roast yourself when The Fool falls face-first. Tarot doesn’t work because it’s deadly serious—it works because it’s a game that reminds you to keep playing until the final credits roll.

xo,

Jade

The Fine Line Between Grateful and Full of Shit

I caught myself trying to duct-tape my feelings with gratitude the other day. Like, “Oh, you’re facing the reality of limited disposable income? Quick, distract yourself by being thankful for running water and Netflix.”

Which, yes—I’m glad my toilet flushes. But that doesn’t magically make Publix BOGO prices feel like a blessing when you’re side-eyeing the total at checkout like it’s a bad Tinder date.

Here’s the thing: gratitude is wonderful… until it turns into a hostage situation.

• “Your car broke down again? Be grateful you have legs.”

• “Your kid just used permanent marker on the dog? At least you have a kid!”

• “You’re lonely? Be thankful you don’t have to share the remote.”

See how quick that can turn into “shut up and be grateful, bitch”? It’s like the Hallmark version of tough love, and somehow even more insulting.

Gratitude is supposed to be a perspective shift, not a silencer. It’s seasoning, not a cover-up. Imagine dumping a whole shaker of garlic salt into your sadness—congrats, you’ve made inedible grief casserole.

And don’t get me started on the “others have it worse” line. Yes, Karen, someone out there lives in a cardboard box, but that doesn’t mean I have to feel #blessed while enjoying my ramen noodles for the 3rd day in a row.

Gratitude culture is wild. You can be crying in your car, mascara running, screaming at traffic, and some influencer will pop up like: “But did you try being grateful?” Yeah, Susan, I did. I’m grateful I didn’t ram my Hyundai into the Starbucks drive-thru. Does that count?

Now, full disclosure: I don’t really engage in the “crying in the car over every idiot without a blinker” scenario anymore. I’m doing the work. Turns out not every blinker-challenged mid-life Mark deserves front-row access to my emotional system. I’m learning to respond rather than react, and it’s empowering as hell to know I can save the big feelings for the big things. I control my emotions—not some random Honda weaving across three lanes like it’s an Olympic sport.

And listen, this is definitely personal. I grew up in a house where emotions weren’t exactly encouraged. Gratitude was safe. Gratitude didn’t piss anyone off. “Be thankful for what you have.” Which translated to: “Don’t bring your messy, human feelings to the table.” So yeah, no wonder I try to bypass my lack, my anger, my longing, with a quick little “I’m grateful for coffee” bandaid.

But here’s the kicker: you can’t regulate what you refuse to feel. Gratitude doesn’t erase lack. It doesn’t cancel envy. It sure as hell doesn’t pay the damn rent. What it can do is sit alongside the mess. Like, “Yes, I’m annoyed af that I can’t just impulse buy the $40 candle at Target… and also, damn, this Goodwill blazer makes me feel like a boss.”

Because real life is both. It’s:

• being grateful for your partner while fantasizing about throat-punching them when they chew too loud.

• being thankful for your job and also plotting its murder every Monday.

• loving your kids and simultaneously Googling “cheap boarding school” after the fourth meltdown of the day.

That’s the spectrum. Gratitude that tries to cancel the other stuff is fake as hell. Gratitude that coexists with it? That’s where the power is.

So maybe the better question isn’t “Am I grateful enough?” but “Am I being real?” Because nothing says growth like admitting: “Yes, I’m blessed, and also, Publix can still go to hell for charging $7.49 for a small cut fruit cup”

And if all else fails? Hit up Goodwill. Gratitude alone won’t fix your life, but a $7 blazer can trick the world—and sometimes even you—into believing you’ve got your shit together.

xo,

Jade

The Estrogen Plot Twist: How a Whisper of Hormone Turned the Lights Back On

25 mg of estradiol, one confused libido, and a faint memory of feeling like a goddess

I wasn’t expecting fireworks. Honestly, I was just hoping for “slightly less irritable and maybe not so dry.” That was the bar. If I could stop wanting to throat punch people for chewing too loudly, I would’ve called it a win.

And truth be told, I was nervous to even try estrogen again. Several months back, I did a round with Premarin and—let’s just say—my body did not RSVP yes to that party. It was a nightmare. Mood swings, weird symptoms, and a general feeling that my hormones were being DJ’d by a drunk toddler. (Read that story here: https://hippiegirlmedia.com/blog/my-date-with-mrs-ed-a-premarin-horror-story ) So this time, I tiptoed in with a bioidentical form of estradiol, hoping for the best but fully prepared to be disappointed.

Four days into the tiniest dose—a literal whisper of hormone—something shifted. My brain unclenched. My mood softened. And, plot twist, I started thinking about sex again. Not in a “must mount something immediately” way. More like… a warm hum in the background. A gentle knock from the part of me I thought had packed up and moved to some remote cabin in Alaska without leaving a forwarding address.

Turns out estrogen does more than keep you from turning into a human cactus.

I thought brain fog was just part of getting older. I thought low energy was just life now. I thought my lack of interest in anything remotely sexual was because men are exhausting and I have a comfy bed. But no. Turns out, my hormones were tapped out like an overworked bartender on a Friday night.

I had been blaming stress, age, diet, TikTok attention span, you name it. Never once did I think, “Hey, maybe the gas tank is just empty.” That would’ve been too logical.

Four Days In, I Felt… Different.

Is this what being regulated feels like? Because it’s suspiciously peaceful. The first sign? I wasn’t annoyed at everything. The grocery store was still a hellscape, but I didn’t fantasize about ramming my cart into the guy blocking the aisle with his existential crisis. My shoulders dropped from ear level. I laughed at something stupid without immediately following it up with an eye roll.

And then I caught my reflection and thought, “Huh. She’s still got it.” Not in a delusional Instagram influencer way, but in a “maybe I don’t look like the villain in a Victorian orphan story” kind of way.

Libido Is a Funny Thing (Until It Isn’t)

So… am I horny or just happy? I wasn’t exactly ready to start swiping right, but I noticed a shift. My body felt… alive. Music sounded better. I caught myself dancing in the kitchen like I used to. I felt skin-hungry again—not necessarily for someone else, but for myself.

It wasn’t about a partner. It wasn’t even about sex in the traditional sense. It was about remembering what desire feels like when it’s not buried under stress, fatigue, and Netflix binges.

No Partner, No Problem (Okay, Maybe a Tiny Problem)

Celibacy is cute until your hormones show up with a bullhorn. Let’s be clear: I’m not diving headfirst into the dating pool. That shallow end is filled with red flags and podcast bros who think “alpha male” is a career path. But now that my body is sending little “hey girl” signals again, I’m figuring out how to honor them without inviting chaos.

Cute lingerie for me? Yes, please. A couple of questionable late-night Amazon purchases? Don’t judge me.

Hormones Don’t Have to Be Scary (But They’re Not a Magic Wand Either)

Consult your doctor, not your coworker Karen who got hers from Mexico. This isn’t me saying, “Run out and grab some estradiol like it’s a flash sale at Target.” Hormone therapy isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution, and it’s not without risks. And full disclosure—I’m not a doctor, a chemist, or anyone’s guru. I think the difference for me is that this time I’m using a bioidentical form instead of Premarin, but again… for all I know, it could just be timing, dosage, or sheer dumb luck.

If you’ve been feeling like a shell of yourself and can’t figure out why? It’s worth a conversation with your doctor. And if they dismiss you, find another one. You don’t have to accept “that’s just aging” as a diagnosis. Sometimes it’s not you—it’s your chemistry.

Wrap-Up: Maybe You’re Not Broken. Maybe You’re Just Underfueled.

If a quarter milligram of the right hormone can flip the breaker switch back on, why not at least check the wiring? I spent years thinking I was just tired, over it, and past my prime. Turns out, I was just running on fumes.

Now? The lights are back on, the music’s playing, and I’m not saying the party’s started… but the guest list is under review.

xo,

Jade

Cosmic Reset? Gut Mutiny? Or Both?

How the Black Moon Ended My Relationship with McDonald’s

So… the Black Moon hit on August 23rd, and apparently my digestive system decided to join the party. I wish I could say it was a graceful release of old patterns, like some kind of enlightened swan floating off into the ether. Nope. Try labor-level cramping followed by a bathroom marathon that would make an exorcism look subtle.

Here’s the thing: I don’t even eat McDonald’s that often. But August 24th? Yeah. I got lazy and rolled the dice. And I swear the Black Moon used my gut as a megaphone to say: “No. More. McDonald’s. Ever.”

Because while my brain can rationalize anything (“It’s convenient, it’s cheap, I’ll just get a small fry”), my body staged a full-on digestive system coup d’état. Not food poisoning, not random bad luck — just my system crossing its arms and declaring, “Cute story. Nope. Not today.”

Why the Black Moon Timing Mattered

For anyone who doesn’t track lunar drama: a Black Moon is the second new moon in a calendar month (some astrologers also tie it to Lilith’s energy). Either way, it’s considered a cosmic “reset button” — the kind of energy that drags hidden patterns out of the shadows and says, “We’re done with this cycle. Time for something new.”

So, while some people journal intentions or light candles, apparently my body went straight for the nuclear option: shut down, purge out, and refuse to carry another bite of low-vibe drive-thru into the next lunar cycle.

And honestly? I kind of love that. It wasn’t just a stomach revolt. It felt like a final word from my body and Spirit — an official eviction notice to old junk, both energetic and edible.

The Symbolism Was Unavoidable:

• The cramps felt like contractions: birthing myself into a new cycle.

• The bathroom theatrics? Explosive release. Zero negotiation.

• The aftercare was basically a ritual: water, rest, and the sacred vow that never again will I hand Ronald McDonald the keys to my gut.

And here’s the deeper takeaway: when we hit shadowy, potent portals like a Black Moon, it’s not always some blissful meditation. Sometimes it’s your body flipping the table and saying “We’re not carrying this garbage into the next cycle.”

So yeah. Goodbye McDonald’s. And thank you, Black Moon, for the most savage breakup intervention I’ve ever had.

Dear Ronald,

We need to talk. It’s not me, it’s definitely you.
You’ve been in and out of my life for years, showing up with fries and false promises. Sure, you were convenient, cheap, and always open late — but that’s not love, that’s entrapment.

Under the Black Moon, my body finally staged the intervention I didn’t know I needed. Cramping, chaos, and an intestinal uprising of epic proportions. Message received.

I deserve better. Better ingredients, better vibes, better mornings after. So I’m reclaiming my gut, my energy, and my dignity.

Goodbye, Ronald. Don’t call, don’t text, and for the love of all that’s holy, don’t send coupons.

Sincerely,
A former fry addict turned free woman.

So that’s the tale of my Black Moon purge. And honestly? I couldn’t have scripted a better cosmic intervention. Some people write intentions under a dark sky; I staged a bathroom coup and divorced a clown. Different rituals, same result: a fresh cycle, a lighter body, and zero regret.

xo,

Jade

The Soul Codes of Eye Color: A Bunch of Whimsy with a Side of Reality Check

So here we are, staring deep into the kaleidoscope of eye colors like it’s some ancient cosmic Ouija board. These “soul codes” are making the rounds again, promising that your muddy brown peepers or steely gray stare are proof that you’re an Earthkeeper, a Seer, or some other Tik Tok archetype. Sounds juicy, right?

Let’s break it down for kicks:

✨ Brown Eyes: The Earthkeepers
Grounded. Protective. Wise. Also probably really good at remembering where they put the remote.

✨ Blue Eyes: The Dreamers & Star Messengers
Clarity and psychic insight. Or, let’s be real—just someone who’s mastered the art of intense staring contests.

✨ Green Eyes: The Mystics & Nature Seers
Growth, intuition, and a borderline obsession with moon water.

✨ Gray Eyes: The Seers & Timewalkers
Mystery and neutrality—like an overcast day that somehow makes you feel like you’re in a black-and-white indie film.

✨ Hazel Eyes: The Alchemists
Fusion and adaptability. Basically, the human equivalent of a mood ring.

✨ Amber Eyes: Power & Illumination
The divine spark. The vibe of someone who’ll be the last one standing in a karaoke showdown.

And here’s the kicker: it’s all nonsense.

But you know what? That’s okay. Because sometimes, nonsense is exactly what we need. Believing in something as silly as your soul’s mission being tied to your eye color isn’t about scientific accuracy—it’s about sprinkling a little bit of magic on your day.

And let’s be real: this is a pretty safe way of staying connected to our inner child. Play isn’t just for kids. Play is necessary for adults too—right up to the age of dead, if you ask me. It’s what keeps us curious, keeps us soft, and keeps the dull ache of “real life” from stealing every last drop of wonder.

When you treat your everyday like it has a secret meaning, you start to see possibility in everything. Maybe you’re not actually an Earthkeeper or an Alchemist, but when you choose to see yourself that way—if only for a minute—you’re playing with your own narrative. And that’s powerful.

It’s like carrying a lucky penny in your pocket or making a wish when the clock hits 11:11. It’s not about whether it’s true. It’s about whether it lights you up, even a tiny bit.

Because let’s be honest: life is already full of spreadsheets, never-ending to-do lists, and existential dread. If staring into your mirror and pretending your soul code is “Star Messenger” gives you a spark of joy, that’s worth more than all the fact-checking in the world.

“Keep your vibe weird and your coffee strong.”

So go ahead—claim your eye color code, wear it like a cosmic badge of honor, and then go out and live it like the glorious, slightly delusional, fully alive human that you are.

Reality check? The only true soul code is kindness, curiosity, and a good sense of humor. But a little dash of whimsy never hurt anybody.

xo,

Jade

When Love Demands Silence, It Isn’t Love

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from betrayal or abandonment.
It comes from the slow erosion of being tolerated instead of celebrated.

It starts quietly. A dismissive comment. A subtle eye roll. A conversation where curiosity is replaced with condescension.
Maybe someone says, “I don’t care what you think.”
Maybe they say your beliefs are “wrong.”
Maybe they just make it clear:

You are only welcome here as long as you don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

For many, this shows up in relationships where one partner’s truth—spiritual, emotional, or otherwise—is seen as inconvenient. Where difference is not met with respect, but with judgment. Where the cost of peace is silence.

It might be politics. Or queerness. Or creative expression. Or healing practices.
It’s about anything sacred being made to feel shameful.

And often, this happens in long-term relationships—where time and history blur the line between love and control.
Where devotion gets twisted into duty.
Where someone stays, not because they’re thriving, but because leaving feels like betrayal.

But here's the truth:
If love requires you to abandon yourself to keep it, it’s not love. It’s captivity.

There comes a moment—sometimes triggered by a single sentence or a sudden realization—when a person sees it clearly:

They haven’t been “in love” for a long time.
They’ve simply been present. Attached. Devoted to a structure that no longer holds soul.
And they’re done making themselves small to fit someone else’s comfort zone.

Because the kind of love worth staying for?
It doesn’t silence your fire.
It doesn’t ask for invisibility.
It doesn’t recoil from your magic, your mess, or your evolution.

Real love says, “I see you.”
And not just the curated, convenient parts.
All of you.

So for anyone standing at that threshold, wondering if they’re asking too much:
You’re not.
You’re asking to be met.

And if someone can’t meet you there, it’s okay to walk away—not out of hate, but in reverence for the sacred within you that refuses to go quiet.

Because at the end of the day?
You have to be the love you want to find in the world.
Honest. Brave. Free.
Unapologetically whole.

xo,

Jade

Eighth of August, Eight Years Gone, and Still Raising Hell in My Heart

08/08. Born on this day in 1944. Gone from this world eight years now. And somehow still managing to take up space in every room I walk into. Still echoing. Still rolling her eyes. Still showing up in my voice, my humor, and every time I lose my shit at exactly the wrong moment.

There’s something poetic—and a little spooky—about all the eights. It’s the number of infinity, yes, but also the number of karma. Of comebacks. Of backbone. She was the eight. The full set. She was born in the middle of a war and lived like she was always halfway between a peace offering and a firebomb.

And as she often reminded people, with that calm-before-the-storm voice:
“Don’t start no shit, won’t be no shit.”

Heart Like a Velvet-Covered Cactus

She had a huge heart—no question. But sometimes it felt like loving her meant signing up to hug a porcupine in a windstorm. She was raised by a military father who wanted a son and didn’t know how to show love, and a Scorpio mother who was too busy surviving to coddle anyone. By age ten, she was caring for two younger siblings like it was normal. Because in her world, it was. Emotions were inconvenient. Softness was weakness. So she armored up, stayed quiet, and learned to handle things herself.

She loved me—deeply and fiercely—but emotional safety wasn’t something she knew how to provide. If I cried, she’d stiffen. If I got overwhelmed, she’d look at me like I’d started speaking dolphin. She wasn’t trying to be cold. She was just... forged in fire. There wasn’t time for feelings when survival was on the table.

I Miss the Woman Who Could Make Me Laugh Mid-Explosion

Even at her angriest, she could be hilarious. She’d be mid-rant, eyes blazing, voice descending into the lowest register—and then she’d say something so unexpectedly her that I’d crack up.

She’d glare at me. “You think that’s funny?”
And I’d say, “The way you said that? It’s hilarious.”
And she’d try to hold her face, but then she’d crack too. That laugh? That rare, real laugh? Worth everything.

I miss that. I miss her strength. I miss how capable she was. I miss her humor, even when it showed up wrapped in rage. I miss the woman who could juggle chaos like it was part of the daily routine, and somehow still roast you with a one-liner that left you gasping.

She Taught Me to Rescue Myself (and How to Mistrust, Unfortunately)

My mom never taught me to wait for someone else to fix my life. She taught me to stand up, square my shoulders, and fix my own damn problems. That independence? That ability to keep going no matter what? That’s her.

But so is the suspicion. The guardedness. The inability to let people in without first checking for sharp edges. She handed me her armor before I even knew I was wearing it. I’ve had to unlearn some of that. I’ve had to figure out how to let softness in—how to let love in—and not see it as a liability.

And in trying not to be her, I overcorrected. I wanted to give my kids the emotional freedom I didn’t have—but I didn’t yet know how to handle my own emotions, let alone theirs. It turned into a bit of a train wreck. A good-hearted shit show. But at least it was mine.

What I’d Say to Her Now

Thank you.

For the strength. For the resilience. For the brutal honesty, even when it hurt. For doing the best you could with what you had. For teaching me to fight when needed, and to laugh even when I was drowning.

And also… I forgive you.

Not because it erases anything. But because I see now that you were doing what you were taught. What you had to. And I know how heavy that must’ve been.

Wherever you are now—whatever healing looks like on the other side—I’ll hold space for you. I’ll carry your strength, but I won’t carry the weight you never should’ve had to bear. Not every moment calls for steel. Some just call for love.

Carrying Her Forward (With Her Higher Self Riding Shotgun)

I used to think honoring my mom meant living like her—tough, guarded, handling it all on my own. But that was her survival self. Her war-self. The part of her that never got a chance to rest. I don’t think that’s who she is now.

Now? I imagine her softer. Lighter. Laughing more. Maybe wearing those slippers her niece slipped into her coffin. (That’s a whole different story…lol.) I imagine her watching me figure it out down here and saying, “It’s okay to let people help you. It’s okay to not know. You don’t always have to go full porcupine.”

So that’s how I’ll bring her with me. Not just as the woman who raised me, but as the soul who’s still learning right alongside me. I’ll carry her strength, sure—but I’ll also practice softness. I’ll honor her grit, but I’ll choose peace when I can. I’ll keep her humor alive, especially in the middle of chaos, and I’ll keep listening for her voice when the world gets too loud.

Because I think her higher self would approve of that version. The one who finally gets to rest. The one who trusts me to take it from here.

xo,

Jade

Spirit Showed Up in My Bed — and Not in the Fun Way

August 1, 2025. I was in a solid mood — energized, borderline cocky, and fully prepared to let Spirit either hype me up or call me out. So I climbed into bed (yes, bed — because that’s where all the real magic happens), grabbed ALL my tarot and oracle decks like I’m hosting a spiritual slumber party, and said:

“Alright, Spirit. I’m listening. Spill it.”

Cue the spiritual download. It came in layers. Like a cosmic lasagna.

First cards out? “Stuck in Fear” and “Community Calls.” Spirit Has Entered the Chat.

Okay, rude — but also accurate. Apparently, I’ve been playing it safe, hoarding my solitude like a fat kid with cupcakes. Spirit’s basically saying, “Look bitch, you’re not a recluse, you’re just scared of peopling again. Let’s ease back into humanity, yeah?”

Then came Temperance, Ace of Pentacles, and Five of Wands.

Translation: “You're finding balance, something new wants to sprout, but people are going to try and talk over your inner voice while you’re doing it.” Noted. My mantra now? Let them. I’m busy growing things.

And because the universe LOVES to layer it on, we got Compassion (99) and Miao Shan.

The vibe here? Divine Mom with the raised eyebrow. She’s not here to coddle, but she IS here to remind me that I don’t have to earn rest or kindness. Mercy isn't weakness — it's flexing your softness and still walking like you own the place.

Next up: Four of Cups, Knight of Pentacles, and Five of Cups. All aboard the Human Mess Express.

So basically: “You’re moving forward, but also kind of bored, slightly emotionally hungover, and contemplating past decisions like it’s a Netflix binge you regret.” Slow progress is still progress. And apparently, occasional grumpiness is allowed.

Then we had a triple threat: Three of Swords, Ten of Wands, and Two of Swords.

Aka: Emotional paper cuts, too much crap in your emotional backpack, and a side of “Do I stay or do I go?” indecision. This was the moment I realized Spirit was not pulling punches today.

But then — The Hermit and Six of Swords entered like chill older siblings with incense and good advice. I’m not retreating. I’m relocating my peace.

And Now... My Soul Would Like a Word.

The final wave of cards came through like a love letter I didn’t know I needed. Ace of Cups. Six of Swords. Eight of Cups. From a different deck, no less — because apparently Spirit wanted to remix the message for dramatic flair.

What I heard loud and clear? “Your heart is online. You know what needs to be released. You’re not sad, you’re sure.”

And that hit. Not because I’m trying to run away from anything — but because I’m finally ready to walk toward something that doesn’t require shape-shifting to feel safe.

So what was this all really about?

It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even a pep talk. It was a clarifier. It was Spirit’s exit monologue.

“You’ve done the work. Now stop second-guessing it. Your softness is your power, your solitude is sacred, and your ‘hell no’ is holy.”

So yeah, I pulled cards in bed and got read like a book. Not mad about it. Definitely felt seen. Might do it again next week.

If your bed is also your altar and you’ve been feeling the shift, maybe it’s your turn. Pull the cards. Light the candle. Have the conversation with the Universe. Just be warned: Spirit’s got jokes.

xo,
Jade

Mary Magdalene: History’s Favorite “Bad Bitch” Redeemed

Let’s set the record straight on Mary Magdalene—because this woman has been dragged through the historical mud harder than a goth kid at a Southern Baptist summer camp.

For centuries, Mary Magdalene was treated like the Bible’s resident bad girl, the “fallen woman” who found Jesus after a life of shady alleyway antics. But let’s be honest: this image was a convenient spin by the early church to remind women of their place. The truth? She wasn’t that “sinful woman” who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears. That was an entirely different woman whose name conveniently didn’t make it into the final draft. Mary Magdalene’s name did—and it’s high time we gave it back to her.

Here’s what we do know. She was from Magdala, a fishing village on the Sea of Galilee. She rolled deep with Jesus and his crew—so deep that she was there at his crucifixion and was the first to see him after he rose from the dead. All four canonical Gospels say it, so you can take that to the bank.

In the Gospel of John, she has this mic-drop moment at the empty tomb when Jesus says, “Mary!” and she replies, “Rabboni!” which means “Teacher.” No fanfare, no posturing—just a woman with a mission. She then hauls ass back to the disciples and delivers the biggest news in Christian history: “I have seen the Lord.” That’s some “Apostle to the Apostles” energy right there.

The early Christian community gave her that title—apostle to the apostles—and recognized her as a leader. But then the church fathers realized letting a woman call the shots might ruffle too many patriarchal feathers. So they rewrote her story, lumping her in with every “loose woman” in scripture. Subtle, guys. Real subtle.

If you crack open the Gnostic gospels—like the Gospel of Mary Magdalene—she’s not a silent sidekick. She’s a spiritual teacher and a confidant to Jesus, giving the boys in the back row a run for their money. These texts suggest she was more than just a follower—she was a co-architect of the faith. But because these writings didn’t make the final cut (thank the Council of Nicea for that one), her wisdom was buried under centuries of dusty doctrine.

So who was Mary Magdalene, really? A spiritual powerhouse who refused to let anyone else write her story. She wasn’t some passing fancy or a scandalous footnote in Jesus’ ministry—she was the one who stuck around when the rest of the disciples went AWOL, the first to witness the empty tomb and the first to carry the message of resurrection into a world that didn’t think a woman could be a messenger. She was a woman who stared down death, heartbreak, and centuries of revisionist bullshit—and still walked out of history’s shadows with her head held high.

Mary Magdalene reminds us all that the world will try to repackage our power as scandal, to turn our voice into a whisper or a footnote. But she didn’t fade. She didn’t fold. She took her place at the heart of the story and refused to move, reminding anyone paying attention that real power doesn’t ask for permission—it just shows up, speaks the truth, and keeps on moving.

She was more than a witness. She was a testament to the power of showing up when everything says you should sit down. And if you let that truth settle in your bones, you’ll find it there the next time you’re told you’re too much, too loud, too bold—because, like Mary, you’re here to be seen, not silenced.

xo,

Jade

Chronologically 59, Mentally 39: Why I still feel young, dumb, and full of opinions.

So, I’m turning 59 in a few days.
That’s… almost 60. Don’t worry, I’m just as surprised as you are. Like, what the actual fuck?!

Honestly, if I didn’t know my own birthdate, I’d argue with you. Because there is no universe in which I feel like someone who’s almost eligible for the early bird special and receives random brochures from cremation services. I’m looking at you, Neptune Society. Calm down—I still have all my own teeth and a playlist that slaps.

I’m not even sure how we got here. One minute I was learning how to contour and doing shots of Jäger, and now I’m googling “why does my back hurt after I sneeze?” and carrying BC powders in every bag I own like a damn amulet.

My brain has decided it’s just not participating in this “aging” thing. Nope. She’s chillin’ somewhere in the late 30s to early 40s range, sipping cold brew coffee and wearing eyeliner that hasn’t been discontinued yet. She still wants to write a book and possibly dye her hair pink just because. I still think in memes. I still mentally blast Alanis or Beastie Boys when I need a pick-me-up. I still feel like the most “me” version of me came online somewhere in my 30s—and she never logged off. She just got better at boundaries and started carrying hand sanitizer.

But let’s be real—my body has definitely received the aging memo.
The knees crack. The back has strong opinions about how long I can sit in one position before it stages a full-blown mutiny. There are days when I stand up and hear more sound effects than a Marvel fight scene. I sneeze wrong? That’s two days of rest and an ice pack.

And don’t even get me started on sleep.
I used to pass out like a toddler in a car seat. Now I wake up every few hours like I’m on night watch in a war zone, for no reason other than… being alive, apparently?

Still, none of this feels like me.
Because inside, I’m still the girl who laughs too loud, overthinks everything, and daydreams about doing something wildly inappropriate and totally life-affirming. Like moving to the desert. Again. Or kissing a stranger. Or starting a cult that just reads tarot and talks about healing our mother wounds while drinking good tequila.

(But like… an empowering cult. With healthy snacks.)

Here’s the real truth, though:
Aging is the weirdest blend of freedom and grief. You stop giving a damn what people think—finally!—but you also start noticing what you’ve lost. Time. Energy. People. The illusion that there’s so much time left. It’s a quiet reckoning, sometimes. But it’s also an awakening. You see clearer. You choose better. You finally start showing up for yourself like you mean it.

And that? That’s the sweet spot. That’s the part they don’t tell you about in your 20s when you’re panicking about turning 30 and pretending you understand your 401(k). You think it’s all downhill, but nah. You build the mountain as you go—and then you stand on it and scream, “This is MY life, bitch.”

So yeah. I’m turning 59.
I’ve outlived some people. Outgrown others. Outlasted things I thought would kill me.
I’ve failed spectacularly. Loved deeply. Laughed at funerals.
I’ve carried grief in one hand and a half-empty bottle of liquid courage in the other.
I’ve pulled myself out of situations I had no business surviving, and somehow still dance in the kitchen like the music was made just for me.

I don’t feel 59.
I feel alive.
And that’s more than enough.

So bring on the cake. Bring on the candles. Bring on the chaos of becoming whatever the fuck I want next.

Because I’m not done.
Not even close.

And if someone tries to call me “ma’am,” I will be flipping that AARP card like a ninja star. Just a heads-up.

xo,

Jade

The Stoned Ape Theory: Mushrooms, Myths, and a Little Evolutionary Mischief

You ever hear of the Stoned Ape Theory? It’s one of those ideas that sounds like it was cooked up by your weird cousin who keeps trying to sell you magic mushroom chocolates at family reunions. And honestly, it kind of was—Terence McKenna, the cosmic philosopher himself, basically said early humans tripped their way into modern consciousness.

The theory goes like this: our ancient ancestors stumbled upon psychedelic mushrooms while foraging in the African savanna. They munched on these mind-bending fungi, and bam!—their brains lit up like the 4th of July. Suddenly, they were seeing colors, hearing music in the rustle of leaves, and probably inventing the first spoken word just to say, “Duuuude…”

McKenna’s spin is that these mushroom-fueled visions jump-started our creativity, language, and spiritual connection to the universe. A trippy idea, right? Like, mushrooms as the original WiFi password to the cosmic mainframe.

But here’s where the theory hits a snag: evolution doesn’t work that way. You can trip as hard as you want, but those mind-blowing insights don’t get tattooed onto your DNA. In other words: you can’t pass down your shroom visions to your kids—no matter how magical they feel in the moment.

However—and this is where it gets juicy—the cultural shifts that come from these experiences can have a ripple effect. If tripping out on mushrooms made early humans more cooperative, more creative, or just better at seeing patterns, that could have made their social groups more successful. Over time, this vibe shift could create environmental pressures that do shape evolution.

So no, the Stoned Ape Theory isn’t going to get a gold star in your biology textbook anytime soon. But the idea that shared mystical experiences can change how groups behave and evolve? That’s some real food for thought—maybe not psychedelic, but definitely fascinating.

And hey, let’s be real—if I had to bet on how humans figured out the whole “language and music and art” thing, a little mushroom magic is as good an explanation as any. Just remember: evolution likes to play the long game. Your trip today might not change your grandkids’ genes, but it sure as hell might change how they see the world. Because even if those cosmic insights aren’t hard-coded into the DNA, they are coded into the culture. The ways we gather, the art we make, the stories we tell—those ripple out way further than any single trip. You can’t pass down your trip journal in your genes, but you can pass it down in your art, your laughter, your conversations around the fire. That’s the real magic, isn’t it?

And maybe that’s what McKenna was getting at, whether he knew it or not: that it’s not just about rewiring brains—it’s about rewilding the soul of the whole damn species. Whether it’s a mushroom trip or a late-night epiphany over a cup of tea, these moments matter because they change how we live—and that’s how the world itself starts to change.

So here’s to the accidental shamans, the barefoot philosophers, and all the misfits who decide to peer a little deeper, trip a little farther, and dare to ask, “What if?” Because even if evolution doesn’t give a damn about your Saturday night head trip, the stories you tell about it just might.

Keep tripping, keep telling stories, and let the evolutionary chips fall where they may.

xo,
Jade

Thanks for the Breakdown: A Gratitude Page for the Ford Fusion That Tried to Ruin My Life

I am grateful for…

1. The surprise gift that came with surprise trauma
Shout-out to my dad for the generous and thoughtful gesture. And shout-out to Ford for building a car with the emotional stability of a haunted Roomba. One week in and she’s already collapsing in the driveway like a drunk bridesmaid. Iconic.

2. The luxury of walking
I’ve discovered muscles I forgot I had while walking everywhere during the three-week “hostage situation.” Thanks, Fusion. You’ve turned me into a cardio queen against my will.

3. The $2800 spiritual offering
I didn’t just pay for repairs. I paid to learn trust no bitch, especially not a 2011 Ford. That money wasn’t wasted—it was a down payment on wisdom.

4. The swift betrayal
Most toxic relationships take time to unravel. But this one? Two hours after the reunion and she’s already leaking oil like a jilted prom queen on the church steps. If cars could cry, this one would sob 5W 20 Synthetic Blend.

5. The ongoing mystery light show
The check engine light reappearing like a stage 5 clinger? Honestly, I’d be worried if it didn’t. At this point, it’s just her way of saying “I missed you.”

6. The brake job foreshadowing
Brake pads and rotors—she wants it all. What a diva. But at least she’s consistent in her desire to keep me emotionally and financially unsafe.

7. The comedy I didn’t sign up for
You know what’s funny? Not this. But the fact that I’m still standing while this car practically dissolves into fluid and debt? That’s dark comedy gold. Someone call HBO.

8. The lowered expectations
Every time I get in this car, I whisper, “Just get me there, bitch.” And honestly, that’s a level of surrender only monks and car trauma survivors understand.

9. The chance to say, “This is a fucking plotline”
Because when I look back, I won’t remember the specs. I’ll remember the audacity. And the fact that I didn’t let it drag me down, even when it was literally leaking in my driveway.

10. The main character energy
Let’s be real—I’m not a side character in this. I’m the badass protagonist in a redemption arc that starts with leaking oil and ends with upgraded transportation and unmatched grit.

Power Mantra:

“May my next ride be reliable, drama-free, and built to worship me like the resilient, road-hardened queen I am.”

xo,

Jade

What Your Favorite Tarot Card Says About Your Toxic Traits

Oh, so you’ve picked your favorite tarot card? Buckle up, buttercup. Here’s what that card says about your delightful inner demons.

The Fool – You’re a chaos gremlin, aren’t you? Charging into situations like they’re free samples at Sam's Club, with zero game plan and an unshakable belief in your own delusion. Bless your messy little heart.

The Magician – Your hustle is real, but your habit of twisting every situation to fit your narrative? That’s some next-level puppet master shit. You’re a creator alright—of chaos.

The High Priestess – You’d rather vibe in a corner of moody mystery than actually admit you don’t have the answers. Your spiritual aesthetic is impeccable, but your communication skills? Practically in witness protection.

The Empress – You’re all about growth and beauty, but let’s not pretend you don’t lowkey expect everyone to cater to your every whim. Queen behavior with a side of high maintenance.

The Emperor – You’re big on control and structure. But newsflash: life doesn’t always follow your bullet points. So loosen that iron grip, Caesar.

The Hierophant – You love to act like you’re the moral compass of your friend group, but you’re really just clinging to traditions like they’re a safety blankie.

The Lovers – You’re one of those starry-eyed romantics who sees every passing Tinder match as a cosmic sign. “It’s fate!” you cry—while ignoring every red flag like they’re just carnival streamers.

The Chariot – You’re determined as hell, but let’s be real—your need to always “win” can steamroll everything in your path, including people’s feelings.

Strength – You’re tough, no doubt, but you’re so used to holding it together for everyone else that you’ve forgotten how to actually let people in.

The Hermit – You’re the wise loner… until you ghost your friends and act like it’s some profound spiritual retreat, when really you’re just avoiding your own shit.

The Wheel of Fortune – You act like you’re above it all—fate’s favorite plaything. But deep down, you’re terrified of anything that’s out of your control.

Justice – You crave fairness and balance, but your black-and-white worldview can make you as rigid as a nun’s corset.

The Hanged Man – You love to act like you’re “just going with the flow,” but you’re actually just stuck. Change your perspective or stay upside-down forever, babe.

Death – You love to act like you’re a dark, edgy soul with zero fucks to give, but let’s be real—someone unfollowing you on Instagram still ruins your whole day.

Temperance – You’re all about finding that sweet spot, but let’s be honest—sometimes you’re just using “balance” as an excuse to be indecisive as hell.

The Devil – You say you’re just “embracing your desires,” but really, you’re just refusing to delete that situationship’s number because you live for the drama. Own it.

The Tower – You crave the rush of destruction. You’re the human equivalent of a forest fire. Except your “controlled burns” usually end up torching everyone else’s picnic, too.

The Star – Oh, sweet hopeful one. Your toxic trait? Blind optimism. You’d rather sprinkle glitter on a dumpster fire than face the fact that some people just can’t be saved.

The Moon – Your vibe is all about mystery and illusion, but let’s face it—half the time you’re lost in your own maze of overthinking.

The Sun – You’re the human version of a motivational poster. But you shine so bright that you forget other people have shadows, too.

Judgement – You’re constantly reinventing yourself, but your need to “rise from the ashes” every five minutes leaves your friends rolling their eyes.

The World – You’re obsessed with completion, but your need to wrap everything up in a tidy bow means you’re always disappointed when life refuses to act like a Netflix finale.

So go ahead—pick your favorite. Just remember: the card is spilling your tea harder than your ex’s drunk texts.

Before I sign off, remember: this stuff is for entertainment purposes only. So don’t get your tarot themed knickers in a twist if you disagree, or feel called out—I’m calling myself out, too. The Empress? I wear that shit on a necklace. The Emperor? Yeah, that’s my life path card—control freak central, baby. And Strength? Of course, I’m a Leo—so my whole life is a dramatic flex for the ages. Anyway, the cards do seem to know us better than we know ourselves sometimes.

xo,
Jade

July 2025 Energy: Disguise Slips. Truth Hits. Legacy Starts.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—July is a lot.
It’s not coming in with soft petals and affirmations. It’s cracking knuckles. Calling your bluff. Asking if the mask you’ve been wearing is actually fused to your face or if you’re just afraid to take it off.

This month? You’ll be tested. Not in a punishment way. In a "you said you wanted more, remember?" kind of way.

Here’s what the cards laid down.

Citadel Spread: The Archetypes That Came to Wreck and Rewire

The Alchemist – You're not breaking down, you're breaking open. Transformation doesn’t look cute mid-process. Keep going.
The Painter – You’ve got creative control again. Whether you're rewriting your story or repainting your personality, the brush is in your hand now.
The Vengeance – Not about revenge. This is about taking your power back from the places you gave it away politely.
The Mascareri – The masks that once protected you are starting to itch. They don't fit anymore, and deep down, you know it.
The Captain – Nobody’s steering the ship but you. Scary? Yes. But liberating? Absolutely.
The Archer (back of deck) – Your soul has a target. July is all about drawing the bow. Aim matters. Hitting it? That comes later.

This lineup doesn’t play. It’s telling you: Stop performing your potential. Start living it.

Tarot Check-In: The Core Four

When I asked “what else do we need to know?” these came flying out:

Ten of Pentacles – Legacy energy. Not just money—meaning. Are you building something that will still matter when you're gone, or just surviving this week?
The Magician – You already have what you need. Tools, skills, timing. If you're still waiting for a sign, this is it.
Seven of Swords – Self-deception, escapism, side-door exits. Are you being sneaky with yourself about what you really want?
The Tower (bottom of deck) – That thing you know is unstable? It’s about to give. Let it. Don't cling to the burning house just because you hung the curtains.

This spread isn’t subtle. It's a cosmic side-eye followed by a mic drop.

The Quiet Part That Speaks the Loudest: Soul’s Whisper

From the Akashic deck, we pulled Soul’s Whisper—the card that shows up when you've been pretending you “don’t know,” even though you do.

This is the part of you that’s been whispering truth all along. Not in dramatic epiphanies—just quiet knowing. The kind that doesn’t yell because it shouldn’t have to.

This is the line between reacting and reclaiming. Between noise and knowing.

The Vibe of the Month:

“Don’t be afraid of the collapse. Be afraid of staying in something that needs to fall.”

July is about walking out of the performance and into your purpose.
It might be messy. Raw. Confrontational.
But it’ll also be real. And that’s where the good shit happens.

Journal Prompts (for the brave):

• What mask am I still wearing out of habit or fear?

• Where am I pretending not to know the truth?

• What would I aim for if I stopped trying to make it palatable?

This month?

You’re the wildfire and the compass.
Don’t waste time waiting for permission.
The mask is slipping. Let it.
The Tower is falling. Bless it.
The Whisper is speaking. Listen.

xo,

Jade

You Should Still Be Here, But Here I Am: A Birthday Love Letter to My Best Friend

It’s been five years since she died. Grief doesn’t end. It shapeshifts. And just when you think you’ve made peace with it, her birthday rolls around and knocks the wind out of you again.

She was beautiful—but not in the boring, predictable way. She had that kind of face that made people think she was sweet and innocent... right before she cracked a beer, cranked up some punk rock, and called you a “tool” with the most endearing smirk you’ve ever seen.

By day, she was the picture of professionalism—an executive administrative assistant who knew how to keep the world spinning. But when the sun went down? A bit of a hellion. And I mean that with love. She didn’t just walk the line between classy and chaotic—she would do Pee Wee’s big shoe dance with a glass of Caymus in one hand and a Camel Light in the other.

She was the kind of person who threw the best parties—not because they were fancy, but because they were fun. She’d spend all day making sure the food was perfect, the games were wild, and nobody ever felt like a wallflower. She wasn’t just the hostess with the mostest—she was Julie, the cruise director from The Love Boat, but with more sass, more snacks, and way fewer khaki shorts. The playlist? Fire. The snacks? Legendary. The vibe? Unmatched. If joy had a hype woman, it was her. And when the music hit just right? Oh, you knew it was time for the “swamp tard” dance to make its grand entrance. She’d bust out that ridiculous hillbilly groove with zero shame and maximum commitment—like it was her spiritual calling. Sandals flapping, arms flying, and all of us crying laughing because only she could make chaos look that good.

She was silly, and I loved that about her. She was also sharp as hell, had zero tolerance for bullshit, and could call you out while simultaneously handing you a plate of nachos. That, my friends, is talent. She was silly. She was strong. She was my bestie.

One time, she sent me a selfie from work. Totally deadpan face… with pickle slices stuck to her eyebrows and upper lip like a mustache. No explanation. No caption. Just pure, chaotic genius. That was so her.

She called me “honky” or “tool” more than she ever called me by name. And somehow, those ridiculous nicknames felt more like love than anything else I’d ever been called. Because she was my person. My chosen sister. The one I didn’t get by blood but got by cosmic design.

And even now—five years later—I can still hear her laugh echo in my memory. Still feel her presence in the quiet moments. Still catch myself thinking, “God, she would’ve loved this,” or “Man, she would’ve had a field day with this nonsense.”

Life without her? Lonely as hell.

Not because I don’t have other friends—I do. Good ones. Solid women. But it’s not the same. Through no fault of theirs, they just... exist in their own orbit. Meanwhile, she and I lived on the same damn planet. We shared gravity. We were friends for over 35 years. Hell, we lived together for the better part of over a decade—longer than some marriages survive. My husband and I even sold all our stuff, packed what was left into a Honda Civic, and drove from Jacksonville to Phoenix just to go live with her. That’s how tightly our lives were woven together. And now? There’s a hole where all of that used to be. A her-shaped space in the fabric of my life that nothing else quite patches.

But I still feel her.

I swear the algorithm is haunted. Music shows up at just the right time—songs we used to scream-sing together, or those deep cuts we’d play on loop while drinking beer until sunrise. It’s like she’s still DJing from beyond, sending me little reminders that I’m not as alone as I feel.

And then there are the things she’ll never get to do again—like making sure I had a party for my birthday when my husband forgot to plan something (because he always did), or drag me off the couch on a bad day and take me out for margaritas and green tea shots until the sadness got blurry around the edges. She’ll never draw something obscene on my drunk husband in Sharpie again—or let him draw something equally ridiculous on her in return. God, I miss the Sharpie wars. And the laughter that followed. And the fact that nobody laughed like she did.

I miss my human. I miss the normalcy of her being here. And I miss the chaos, too.

This year, I’ll probably end up at Sherwood’s—our bar. I’ll order a beer and a green tea shot, raise my glass, and queue up some Motörhead or Descendants. Because if anyone deserved a proper musical sendoff every year, it’s her.

If I’m lucky, a few others who loved her will be there too—because everybody loved her. She was just that kind of person. The kind who made you feel like the funniest, coolest, most interesting version of yourself, even if you were just halfway through your first drink and trying to remember the name of the song playing.

Maybe I’ll watch P.S., I Love You. She was a sucker for Gerard Butler and that movie, and honestly? It hurts in the kind of way I don’t want to stop feeling.

I wish River City Brewing was still around. That’s where we celebrated her 51st birthday, 5 years ago today—just six months before she died. It’s wild how you can have no idea a moment will be your last Big One with someone. That was it. That was the party. And then... it wasn’t.

So I’ll celebrate her this year the only way I know how: by doing all the things that feel like her. Things she would’ve laughed at, danced to, cheered for. I’ll toast her with whiskey or a beer—depending on the mood—and picture her throwing her head back and laughing that contagious Irish laugh of hers. And if I listen closely enough, I know I’ll hear it.

Grief is weird. It doesn’t follow a schedule or fade out neatly like a sad movie. It lingers. It shapeshifts. Some days it sits quietly in the corner, and other days it body-slams you in the toothpaste aisle because a song came on. But through it all, I carry her with me. In the music. In the memories. In the off-color jokes and the way I still expect her to text me on my birthday because my husband forgot again.

She was my sister in everything but blood. My chosen family. My hetero life-mate. My forever human.

And on her birthday—and every day that feels like her—I’ll keep showing up, doing things she’d laugh at, toasting her name, and living in a way that says, You mattered. You still do.

Shannon, I don’t know if you’re listening. I don’t know where you are. But I feel your presence so often. And on your birthday, I celebrate the fact that this world once had the audacity to give me you. I love you. I’ll carry you forward. And yes—I’ll always keep the damn dinosaur and the yodeling pickle.

xo,

Jade

Me: heart wide open, tears flowing, typing my soul into a tribute.
Her (from the afterlife): “Okay, okay, don’t get weird. I'm dead, not gone, ya honky.”

When Spirit Takes the Wheel: How I Manifested a Car by Saying “Fuck It, I Trust the Universe”

My friend…whether you believe in manifestation or not, you are not gonna believe this shit. Buckle up—this is the craziest ride of my life, and I’m not even talking about driving yet!

So here’s the deal: My dad surprised me with a car. Like, actually handed me keys to a whole-ass vehicle.

Rewind a bit—I'd asked him to come check out a car I was thinking about buying. I wasn’t dead set, just curious. But then the seller pulled a fast one and decided not to sell it. End of story, right? I figured that was that.

Fast-forward two weeks.

Outta nowhere, I get a text from dear old Dad asking if I’m free that afternoon. I say I can be (because why not?), and a few hours later he rolls up in a car I don’t recognize.

And then—plot twist—he tells me it’s mine. Just like that. No warning. No “Hey, I got you something.” Just here’s a car like it’s a damn casserole he whipped up on a whim. And y’all…it’s nice. Like, “I’m-genuinely-impressed-and-slightly-suspicious-of-this-universe-glitch” nice.

Yup. That moment alone was enough to make me shout, “Holy hell, the Universe does have my back!”

But hold onto your crystals, my friend—because it gets even wilder…

When I looked up the VIN to get Sirius XM hooked up (because obviously I needed some cosmic tunes to match this vibe), I almost fell outta my seat. Four 3’s, two 4’s, and two 6’s…like, what the actual fuck?! It’s a rolling numerology chart with a set of wheels.

I swear, this feels like the Universe grabbed a megaphone and screamed: “Look, girl, I heard your order loud and clear!”

Let’s break it down, shall we?

• Four 3’s – That’s creativity, expansion, and your spiritual hype squad clapping in the background.

• Two 4’s – Solid foundation. Like, “Here’s your car, now go build something epic.”

• Two 6’s – Harmony and balance, baby. Relationships, home life—basically, all the good shit aligning.

I’ll be honest—my mind is blown. And here’s the thing: I had decided that the car was gonna come to me when the time was right. No stress, no clinging, no “let me overthink this for the next 6 months.” I put the intention out there, let Spirit take the wheel (yes, I went there), and spent maybe 10 minutes total even thinking about a car.

Then—BAM! Car. Repeating numbers in the VIN. Full cosmic confetti shower.

This is what non-resistance looks like in real life. You set your intention, you trust the process, and you get the hell outta your own way. And the Universe? It shows up with the keys in hand and a wink like, “Hope you like the color, babe.”

So yeah. I’m on cloud 9 right now. Rolling around in my new cosmic chariot, grinning like a fool because this shit is real. And guess what? The more I let go, the more I get back.

Here’s your sign, friends: Let Spirit take the damn wheel. You might just find yourself cruising into the next level of your life…with some numerological flair to boot.

Mic drop. 🎤💥

Stoic Sensei #6: Marcus Aurelius – The Emperor’s Last Word

The Diary of a Philosopher-King (and Why It Still Slaps)

Let’s be real: if Stoicism had a frontman, it’d be Marcus Aurelius.
The Roman Emperor himself—wearer of laurel crowns, ruler of the known world… and, on the inside, just another guy trying to keep his shit together.

Born in 121 CE, Marcus wasn’t some pampered prince. His life was a messy mix of wars, plagues, backstabbing senators, and a personal grief that could’ve crushed him. Yet through it all, he kept coming back to one thing: the mind—his greatest ally and worst enemy.

The Meditations: A Private Journal for Public Survival

Marcus didn’t set out to publish a book. His Meditations were private notes—like a journal you’d scribble in at 3am when you can’t sleep because your empire’s on fire (literally).
No posturing. No PR spin. Just raw honesty:

• “You have power over your mind—not outside events.”

• “Death smiles at us all; all a man can do is smile back.”

Memento mori. Remember that death comes for us all—so live fully, not fearfully. These weren’t just Stoic soundbites—they were a lifeline. Marcus was practicing how to be decent, how to be present, and how to keep his soul intact when the world was anything but.

Remember that you’re part of a bigger picture. Don’t get so caught up in your own bullshit that you forget you’re here to serve the greater good.

Marcus could’ve let power warp him—most emperors did. Instead, he tried to live like a philosopher in a palace: humble, self-aware, and painfully honest about his flaws. He didn’t always win that battle, but he never stopped fighting it.

He wasn’t a marble statue; he was a man who admitted he was tired, that people drove him nuts, and that he still believed in showing up fully anyway.
That’s not perfection. That’s practice. And that’s why he’s still the Stoic Sensei to end all Stoic Senseis.

My Take: Midlife Mayhem and Marcus

If Marcus could keep his perspective while running an empire, I can definitely try to keep mine while navigating my own midlife mayhem.
No, I’m not holding the fate of Rome in my hands, but I am holding the shape of my next chapter. And Marcus reminds me that’s enough. He reminds me that:

• You don’t have to be perfect to be good.

• You don’t have to have all the answers to keep going.

• Even emperors had to start over, every damn day.

So here’s what I’m taking from Marcus Aurelius, as I close out this six-week Stoic adventure:

• Life is messy.

• Virtue is your compass.

• And showing up—no matter how small, no matter how wobbly—is the most radical act of all.

We’re all emperors of our own tiny empires. And in the end, the only empire that matters is the one you build inside your mind.

xo,

Jade

Date Night Debrief: Spirit Was Not Subtle About This One

I had just finished writing Romance, Respect, and Reality Checks.
And I mean just finished. Hit save. Sat back in that sacred little exhale of “damn, I said the thing.”

Naturally, I shuffled my tarot deck to do a vibe check. Because you don’t just write about emotional clarity—you follow it with spiritual receipts. That’s when three cards fell out—face down, two of them reversed, one upright.

5 of Pentacles (Reversed)

This card landed like a cold slap and a warm hug.
It said, “You’re not stuck outside anymore. So stop acting like you still need someone to let you in.”
I’d just written an entire blog about emotional clarity and deciding someone isn’t my person—and this card rolled up like, “Cool. Now mean it.” This is healing from rejection. Moving from survival mode to self-respect. The reversal says I’m finally seeing the key that’s been in my hand the whole time.

Perfect fucking timing.

Temperance (Reversed)

Spirit really said, “Imbalance, aisle 3!”
This card echoed everything I’d just unpacked in my writing. The emotional mismatch. The lack of flow. The trying-too-hard to blend two different emotional frequencies. Pulled right after I talked about being “great friends but not life partners.” Coincidence? Please. That’s adorable.

Temperance reversed isn’t subtle. It tells you flat-out: stop trying to turn chaos into chemistry. You can’t keep alchemizing connections that were never meant to be sacred.

8 of Pentacles (Upright)

The one upright card. The grounding force.
This was Spirit’s way of saying, “You did the real work today. Writing that blog? Choosing clarity? That’s the craft. That’s your calling.”
This wasn’t about him. It never was. It was about me honoring what I’ve built—and refusing to detour for someone who doesn’t even know how to show up in the workshop. This card made it crystal clear: I’m not just healing. I’m integrating.

Back of Deck: 2 of Wands (Reversed)

And just to seal it all with a cosmic eye-roll, here comes the 2 of Wands reversed—my classic “don’t get stuck in almosts” card. The one that says: “Are you gonna keep waiting for potential to grow legs, or are you gonna walk toward something that’s already in motion?”

I had just written the words.
And then Spirit dropped the cards.

Then as I sat down to write this very blog you’re reading now, I open my laptop and it’s 2:22.
No lie. No fluff. Just straight-up synchronicity.

For those keeping score, 222 is the angel number that whispers:

“You’re in alignment. Keep going. You’re not crazy—you’re connected.”

It’s about trusting the timing, the process, and the fact that Spirit is always a few steps ahead with the emotional GPS reroute.

So if you’re wondering whether that blog download was real, whether the date night was a test, and whether this next chapter is already unfolding...
Yeah. It is. Spirit already RSVP’d.

Timing like that isn’t random. It’s divine choreography.
Spirit wasn’t correcting me. They were confirming me.
They weren’t saying, “You missed something.”
They were saying, “You nailed it—and we want you to really, truly feel that.”

Spirit basically pulled a chair up to the table and said,

“We see you choosing clarity. We love that for you. Now here’s your confirmation with a side of synchronicity and a big ol’ glass of emotional evolution.”

And me?
I’m listening. I’m learning. And I’m definitely not lowering my standards for someone who thinks “emotional maturity” is just a band name.

So here’s to the lessons, the laughter, the cosmic clapbacks, and the part where I get to walk away—head high, vibe intact, and journal full.

Next time I say I’m just pulling a card for “fun,” please remind me that Spirit doesn’t do casual.

xo,

Jade