There are stories etched not in books, but in symbols —

ancient whispers waiting in velvet-lined boxes,

in the quiet pull of a shuffled deck.

The first time I touched the tarot, I didn’t fully understand what I was holding.

But I felt it.

Like a key. Like a mirror. Like a language older than words.

It didn’t speak to my logic — it sang to my soul.

It didn’t predict — it remembered.

The cards didn’t tell me who I’d become.

They reminded me who I already was.

They became a sacred doorway to my inner child,

who still believed in magic and talked to stars.

And a bridge to my highest self,

who could see the whole spiral from above, and whispered softly: keep going.

And so I did.

It begins, always, with The Fool.

Not foolish — but pure.

The soul, untouched by fear or doubt, standing at the edge of everything it does not yet know, and saying:

Yes.

The Fool doesn’t leap because she’s fearless.

She leaps because she trusts.

In life. In herself. In the invisible net that only appears once you’ve already let go.

I remember being her —

leaving behind the known, holding only a dream in my pocket and stars in my eyes.

I didn’t know what I was becoming.

I only knew I had to begin.

And so the journey unfolded, one card at a time, one lesson at a time.

The Magician came when I realized I had tools —

voice, vision, energy, will —

and that manifestation wasn’t a trick,

but a sacred dance between thought and form.

He taught me that I am the vessel,

but also the spark.

The High Priestess arrived in the stillness.

She didn’t speak.

She remembered for me —

the symbols in my dreams, the way the moon moves my emotions, the pull I feel when truth is near.

She is the gatekeeper of inner knowing,

and she opened the door to my intuition.

Then came The Empress — all sensuality and softness.

She taught me to root into my body.

To receive.

To trust in beauty that blooms without apology.

She reawakened the part of me that loves just to love.

She brought me home to feminine power.

The Emperor followed — structured and strong.

He brought order where chaos lived.

Showed me how to build boundaries not as walls, but as sacred ground.

He helped me hold myself.

With The Hierophant, I questioned tradition.

I sifted through beliefs that were handed to me — and kept only what lit a sacred fire in my chest.

He challenged me to define my own sacred,

to become my own priestess.

The Lovers taught me choice.

Not just in romance, but in alignment.

What do I choose when the soul speaks one way, and the world another?

They taught me that the most intimate union is the one within — when all parts of me agree to walk forward as one.

Then came The Chariot, with fierce momentum.

She taught me how to move with both wild horses — shadow and light —

and keep my eyes fixed on purpose.

Forward. Always forward.

But Strength didn’t roar.

She whispered.

She sat beside my wounded parts and didn’t try to fix them.

She just stayed.

And in her staying, I learned:

Real strength is tenderness.

Real power is presence.

Then The Hermit.

My old friend.

The one who led me inward, lantern lit, into solitude that felt like womb-space.

In him, I found the sanctuary of my own soul.

I found silence — and in it, the voice of my higher self.

The Wheel of Fortune spun and spun.

Things changed.

People left.

Unexpected blessings fell into my lap.

And I learned to ride the cycles — to dance with destiny and not grip too tight.

Justice appeared and placed a mirror in my hands.

She didn’t ask if I was good.

She asked if I was true.

And so I adjusted.

Balanced.

Chose what aligned with my integrity.

Then I met The Hanged One, and life paused.

Dreams stalled.

Time bent.

But from that suspension came surrender.

And surrender gave me vision — upside down, but clearer than ever.

Death came in waves.

Not of life — but of layers.

I buried versions of myself that I once clung to.

And in that sacred decay,

I bloomed.

Then came Temperance, with her golden cups and healing hands.

She showed me how to blend opposites.

How to pour grace where I once poured urgency.

She whispered: You don’t have to be all fire. Be water, too.

The Devil showed me my chains.

The stories I told myself.

The comfort I confused with love.

He offered me the key — and I learned to set myself free.

And when I did, The Tower cracked.

Everything I thought I needed… crumbled.

But beneath the ash, I found clarity.

And the courage to rebuild something real.

Then, soft and sacred, came The Star.

She knelt beside my tired spirit and bathed it in light.

She reminded me that hope isn’t naive — it’s medicine.

It’s remembering that what is meant for me will never pass me by.

The Moon called me into the unknown.

She bathed me in questions and intuition.

She reminded me that not everything must be understood —

some truths are meant to be felt in the body, not solved in the mind.

And then… The Sun.

Golden. Innocent. Whole.

She returned joy to me — not the loud kind, but the steady warmth of presence.

She was the light I had carried all along.

Judgment called next.

She wasn’t here to scold.

She came to resurrect.

She lifted me from the tomb of who I used to be and said:

Rise.

You are ready now.

And I did.

Until finally, I stepped into The World.

Full circle.

Not an ending — but a beginning with eyes wide open.

Integration. Wholeness. Dance.

And still, like all sacred spirals…

I return again to The Fool.

But now, I carry all of her — all of me.

—

Tarot has never been about telling the future.

It has always been about listening to the present —

with soul, with softness, with sacred attention.

Each card is a doorway.

A mirror.

A memory.

When I lay the cards down, I don’t just seek answers.

I come to remember.

To hold hands with my inner child — the dreamer who always believed.

To listen to my highest self — the wise one who already knows.

And maybe, just maybe —

to walk a little more courageously toward the next unknown,

trusting that even when I don’t see the path…

The path already knows me.

So if you ever find yourself lost, heavy, or unsure —

pull a card.

Not to find the answer.

But to find yourself.

You are not walking aimlessly.

You are walking the dream.

You are walking the spiral.

You are the Fool,

becoming the World,

again and again —

and every step of you is sacred.