The Garden You’re Walking Through
As we begin to close out 2025, you might notice that this time of year has a way of stirring something in your bones.
Memories rise. Longing rises. The world leans toward celebration, and yet your heart may be whispering a different story entirely.
And for many—especially our U.S. friends navigating Thanksgiving—the holidays arrive like a sharp reminder of who is no longer at the table. Not because you want to dwell in sorrow. But because love still lives in you, and love remembers.
This season is potent. Tender. Honest.
And it asks something of us.
The Truth About Gratitude in Grief
Over the past few weeks, I've been sitting with the growing chorus of voices saying: "Just be positive." "Write in your gratitude journal." "If you focus on the good, you'll feel better."
And while there can be beauty in gratitude, something about these messages feels incomplete—especially when you're grieving.
It reminds me of walking through a garden.
You pause to admire the blooms—those stunning bursts of life. But the garden isn't just flowers. It's also soil. And weeds. And mud. It's beetles and earthworms and things decomposing in the dark. It's seeds that haven't yet sprouted and roots you cannot see.
If you focus only on the flowers, you miss the truth.
If you focus only on the weeds, you miss the beauty.
Grief and gratitude work the same way.
Gratitude doesn't erase grief. And grief doesn't mean you can't hold gratitude. They simply live together—sometimes peacefully, sometimes not—like everything else in a living, breathing garden.
Ignoring the weeds doesn't make them disappear.
Pretending the mud isn't there doesn't keep your feet from getting wet.
And pretending you're "fine" doesn't magically heal your heart.
What If You Don't Have to Choose?
Here's the truth I keep returning to:
You don't have to be endlessly grateful to be healing.
You don't have to be endlessly strong to be okay.
You don't have to hide your tenderness just because the world prefers polished edges.
You are not failing because this season feels heavy.
You are not behind because you feel "too much."
You are simply human—with a heart that remembers what it has loved.
And what if—just for a breath—you took the pressure off the idea that your loss is supposed to be some grand lesson?
What if loss is simply loss?
Not a punishment. Not a test. Not a cosmic message you need to decode.
Just loss.
And you get to decide what meaning you make from it, if any at all.
That is where your power lives.
Your Birth Chart as a Map of Your Inner Garden
This is where astrology has become such a gentle companion in my own grief—and in the grief of those I walk beside.
Your birth chart is like a map of your inner garden. It doesn't tell you which flowers to plant or which weeds to pull. It shows you the soil you're working with.
It reveals where you tend to collapse inward when grief arrives.
Where you instinctively seek comfort.
Where your soul already knows how to rebuild—even when your mind has forgotten.
There are three placements I return to again and again when companioning someone through loss. I call them the Sacred Triangle:
Moon: how your heart naturally moves through deep waters—what brings you genuine comfort and emotional safety.
Saturn: where you find stability when everything feels like it’s shifting—how you can rebuild, one gentle step at a time.
Chiron: how your deepest wounds hold seeds of wisdom—not because pain is “meant to teach you something,” but because you have already survived things that shaped you.
Your chart isn’t a prescription.
It’s a mirror.
It reflects back the resilience, tenderness, and quiet knowing that has been with you all along.
Imagine This
Imagine sitting with your chart spread before you—not as a prediction of what's coming, but as a reflection of what you're already carrying.
Imagine discovering that your Moon sign has been quietly teaching you how to comfort yourself all along. That the way you crave solitude during hard seasons isn't avoidance—it's your soul asking for exactly what it needs.
Imagine learning that your Saturn placement reveals why you need more structure than others during this season. And that isn't weakness. It's wisdom your chart has held for you since the day you were born.
Imagine finding language for the ache you couldn't name.
Not to fix it—just to finally feel seen by it.
This is what it means to tend your inner garden with a gentle lantern instead of a spotlight.
If You're Craving a Companion This Season
If you're walking through these next weeks with a tender heart, I want you to know: you don't have to do it alone.
Your Moon sign is your emotional backbone—the part of your chart that remembers how to move through deep waters even when everything feels overwhelming.
"Grieve by the Moon" is a gentle doorway into that wisdom—a beautiful beginning. But beginnings can only take you so far.
Inside the guide, you'll meet the emotional archetype your chart has held your entire life. It’s a powerful moment of recognition.
But if your grief is asking for more support than understanding alone, there’s a deeper refuge waiting for you.
When You're Ready for More Than a Beginning
If you've sat with your Moon sign—or if you're simply ready for support that doesn’t evaporate the moment you close a PDF—”Your Grief. Your Timeline. Your Way.” offers something entirely different.
This isn’t just insight.
This is companionship.
Inside, you’ll find:
• Journal prompts designed specifically for grieving hearts
• Gentle audio reflections you can return to on hard days
• Astrology-based guidance that helps you understand not just what you feel, but why it moves the way it does
• Permission slips—actual written permissions (not from me, from your soul)—to make space for the truth you're carrying
• A self-paced rhythm that supports your nervous system
This is the difference between understanding your grief and being companioned inside it.
Step into this space when you're ready →
A Soft Closing for Your Heart
Whatever this season brings—grief, gratitude, or a complicated tangle of both—please remember:
You don't need to be joyful to be worthy.
You don't need to be strong to be healing.
You don't need to be grateful to be enough.
You are already enough.
You are already whole, even in the places that feel broken.
And you are already walking your path—one breath, one step, one moment at a time.
I'm walking beside you. Always.
With tenderness,
Debra
