October has always been my favorite month. The crispness in the air, the changing leaves, pulling out a favorite sweater, making soup again, lighting candles a little earlier in the evening—there is something about this season that has always felt magical to me. Even the smell of October feels different. For many years, I don't think I thought much about why I loved it so much. October simply arrived, and with it came joy.

But life has a way of changing us. Over the past several years, there have been experiences in my own life that have changed the way certain seasons feel. Families change. Relationships change. People come and go. Children grow. We lose things, begin again, take on roles we never expected, and sometimes find ourselves living a life that looks very different from the one we imagined. I still love October, but if I'm being truthful, some of the magic I once felt so easily doesn't always arrive in quite the same way anymore.

I've been thinking about that lately and wondering if perhaps we don't really lose the magic. Maybe life simply asks us to learn how to find it differently.

We can spend so much time trying to recreate how something used to feel that we miss the way joy is trying to meet us now. I'm not the same person I was twenty years ago, or even five years ago. I've lived more, loved more, lost things, been disappointed, had my heart broken and opened again, and learned things I probably wouldn't have chosen to learn. Maybe joy changes because we change.

There is something else I've learned as I've gotten older: I don't always get to choose what arrives at my door, but I do have some choice in what I allow to take up residence within me.

That doesn't mean I don't get angry, hurt, frustrated or overwhelmed. Believe me, I do. Sometimes I need to have my moment, say a few choice words, take a walk, breathe, cry, or simply admit that something really hurt. I don't believe being conscious or spiritual means pretending we're okay when we're not. We're human. We're supposed to feel.

But eventually I have to ask myself: Do I want to keep carrying this?

I've handed my power away enough times in my life to know what that feels like. When someone else's behavior determines my peace, when their anger becomes my anger, when disappointment hardens my heart, or when the noise of the world follows me into every corner of my day, I can feel myself moving away from the person I want to be.

The practice isn't never being affected. The practice is noticing when I've left myself and choosing to come back.

I think this matters especially right now because the pulse of the world can feel incredibly heavy. There is so much suffering, anger, division and noise, and I feel those things deeply. Compassion asks something of us. It asks us to care, to notice and not simply look away because something is uncomfortable. But I'm also learning that caring about the world doesn't require me to carry the entire world inside my body.

I can care deeply and still laugh. I can be heartbroken by something and still notice the beauty of the sky. I can feel disappointed in another human being without allowing that disappointment to decide how I treat the next person I meet. I can acknowledge what is difficult and still create something loving within my own little corner of the world.

Maybe that's where our power actually lives—not in controlling everything happening around us, but in choosing how we want to meet it.

And perhaps that's why autumn feels particularly meaningful to me this year. Nature doesn't struggle with becoming something different. The trees don't cling to their leaves because they were once beautiful and green. They change right in front of us, release what they've been carrying, and somehow the letting go becomes one of the most beautiful displays of the entire year.

We understand this when we look at nature, yet we have such a difficult time offering ourselves the same grace. We hold onto old identities, expectations, relationships, stories and versions of ourselves because they once belonged to us. Maybe autumn reminds us that letting go doesn't mean something went wrong. Sometimes it simply means a season has completed.

The astrology of October seems to carry a similar invitation. The New Moon in Libra brings our attention toward relationships, balance and how we meet one another, but perhaps it also asks us to notice where we may be giving our power away in order to maintain peace. Where could we bring more compassion without abandoning ourselves? Where might we listen more deeply, speak more honestly, or allow a relationship to become something different?

As we move into Scorpio season, the invitation naturally takes us deeper, asking us to notice what we're carrying beneath the surface. Then the Full Moon in Taurus brings us back to the body, the Earth, nourishment, simplicity and what we truly value. I love that reminder because the older I get, the more I realize how little the things we're told to chase have to do with what actually makes a life feel rich.

When I think about the moments that have meant the most to me, they aren't usually the big things. They're someone laughing so hard they can't finish a sentence. A hug that lasts a little longer. Sitting outside and realizing the birds have been singing the entire time. A conversation where someone feels safe enough to tell the truth. Sharing a meal. Teaching a room of people and watching everyone soften. Being with someone who allows me to simply be myself.

Maybe abundance isn't always about having more. Maybe sometimes it's about being present enough to recognize what we already have.

I also don't believe we need to find a gift in everything that happens to us. Some experiences are painful, unfair, disappointing or simply hard. I don't need to put a pretty spiritual bow around those things. But I do believe there can be gifts in who we discover ourselves becoming as we move through them.

Maybe we become more compassionate. More discerning. More willing to create boundaries. More appreciative of the people who genuinely show up. More aware of where we've been abandoning ourselves. More willing to forgive. More capable of recognizing what truly matters.

And perhaps we become less willing to postpone joy until everything around us is okay.

So this October, I'm not trying to recreate the magic I remember. I'm looking for where the magic lives now. In the leaves changing outside my window, a warm bowl of soup, a candle burning in the kitchen, hugging someone I love, gathering with people, walking outside and breathing in that unmistakable October air, laughing, teaching, helping someone feel a little more supported—and probably buying another pumpkin I absolutely do not need.

I'm choosing to live my life as much as possible from the place within me that feels true. I won't always get it right. I'll react. I'll get annoyed. I'll feel hurt. I'll wander away from myself again because I'm human.
But I can come back.
Maybe that's the practice.
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Not becoming someone who is never affected by life, but becoming someone who knows how to return to herself when she is.

And if you're in a season where the magic feels harder to find, I hope you'll give yourself permission to feel what you feel. Don't force gratitude. Don't manufacture joy. Be human. Let yourself have the experience you're actually having.

Then, when you're ready, look around.
Notice one small thing that reminds you there is still goodness here.
Maybe the magic hasn't disappeared.
Maybe we're simply being asked to discover where it lives now.

And perhaps one of the greatest gifts of this whole messy, beautiful human journey is remembering that while we cannot choose everything that happens along the way, again and again, we can choose how we walk through it.

With love,
Donna
Celestial Phases
A Place to Pause. A Place to Remember.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a gentle but powerful theme that keeps weaving its way through my life, my work, and my reflections: learning who we are beneath the roles we’ve inherited — and how our children often help us remember.

So many of us grew up shaped by expectations, labels, and unspoken rules about who we were supposed to be. We learned early how to adapt, how to please, how to quiet parts of ourselves in order to belong or be loved. Most of our parents did the very best they could with what they knew, carrying their own wounds, limitations, and stories. And still, those early dynamics leave an imprint.

As adults, many of us find ourselves slowly — sometimes painfully — peeling back those layers. We begin to notice where our reactions come from. Where irritation, guilt, fear, or self-doubt surface. Where the body tightens. Where old stories speak louder than our truth. And we start asking gentler, braver questions:

Who am I underneath all of this?
What is actually mine to carry?
What wants to be expressed now?

This is where children become some of our greatest teachers.

Children as Mirrors and Messengers

When we look at children through an energetic or astrological lens, something beautiful happens. We begin to see them not as blank slates or projects to perfect, but as souls arriving with their own blueprint, temperament, sensitivities, and gifts.

Understanding a child’s energetic makeup can help us:

• support them rather than shape them
• guide rather than control
• listen rather than fix
• nurture their natural rhythms
• recognize where we are being invited to grow

Often, our children activate places in us that are still tender — places where we were misunderstood, discouraged, or asked to dim ourselves. They can stir frustration, fear, or worry… but they can also open the door to deep healing when we pause and become curious instead of reactive.

In this way, parenting (and caregiving of any kind) becomes a two-way path of evolution.

Learning Together, Growing Together

I’ve come to see that we don’t just teach our children — we evolve alongside them. They reflect our blind spots, our strengths, and our unfinished lessons. They invite us to soften. To listen more deeply. To slow down. To question old conditioning. To expand our capacity for compassion — for them and for ourselves.

When we understand energy, temperament, and emotional wiring, we begin to respond instead of react. We learn how to support regulation instead of suppression. Expression instead of shame. Curiosity instead of control.

And slowly, something shifts.

Relationships become more spacious.
Communication becomes more honest.
Connection deepens.
​
This isn’t about doing it “perfectly.”
It’s about awareness.
Choice.
And a willingness to grow together.
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A Shared Journey of Becoming

Much of my own path has been about unlearning who I was told to be and reconnecting with who I actually am — honoring my sensitivity, my intuition, my depth, my fire. That journey continues, and it’s one I hold with great reverence when I sit with others.

When we approach both ourselves and our children with curiosity instead of judgment, we create room for something beautiful: mutual evolution.

We learn with them.
We heal through them.
We remember ourselves alongside them.

And in doing so, we help shape relationships rooted in understanding, respect, and love — relationships that feel supportive rather than restrictive, alive rather than heavy.

This is the heart of the work for me:
helping people understand energy, self, and relationship in a way that creates more compassion, freedom, and connection — across generations.

With love and good vibes,
Donna