The baby I didn’t have, and the mother I’m still losing
Horoscopes and the quiet work of mothering yourself.
“Today is not a good day to take risks,” my mom would say over toast and coffee, reading aloud from Cosmopolitan like it was holy writ. I was seven and had no risks to take, unless you counted the questionable chicken nuggets in my lunchbox.
Still, I saw how it lit her up, this tiny window into something vast, something that suggested there was a pattern, a rhythm, a reason. That the universe had a plan, even if UnitedHealthCare did not.
So yeah, astrology stuck.
Not in the “Mercury is in Gatorade and that’s why I failed my math test” kind of way, but in the “Maybe the stars are just mirrors, and I’m learning how to look” kind of way.
That’s how I first learned astrology, not from books, but from my mothers voice reading from fashion magazines. I once bought her a real astrology book, thinking she’d devour it. She never touched it. Not because she wasn’t interested, but because she was scared.
She believed in astrology the way you believe in something you're afraid to admit you love too much. Christianity made her feel guilty about it. She’d say, “It’s not of God,” then clip a horoscope from the back of a magazine and leave it on my dresser.
As a teenager, I teased her for it. I liked seeing her lit up, but I also wanted her to be consistent. To choose a lane. I was younger then. Righteousness came easy.
Now that she can barely speak, I’d give anything to argue with her about it again.
Naming the Ghost
When my mom told me she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, I congratulated her.
Not exactly Hallmark material, I know.
But after two years of doctors shrugging and saying, “Eh, she’s just aging,” an actual diagnosis felt like progress. It was like finally naming the ghost that kept rearranging the furniture in our lives. At least now we could look it in the eye and say, “Aha, it’s you.”
Of course, I immediately got to work. I became the full-time daughter, part-time shaman. I pulled out my invisible super-heroine cape (slightly wrinkled, deeply sincere) and made her lemon water with celery juice every morning like it was some magical potion. I researched anti-inflammatory diets like I was cramming for the SATs. I whispered affirmations into her ear. I placed healing crystals on her forehead. I gave her Reiki, sound baths, and fish oil; the trifecta of modern mysticism.
And then I cried into my pillow like a late-stage contestant on The Bachelor who realizes love might not conquer all.
Because behind all the kale smoothies and chanting was one simple question: Am I helping? And behind that question: Please help me, God.
Responsibility, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Read My Horoscope
Somewhere in that swirl of emotional juicing and moon-charged tears, a friend sent me my Vedic astrology chart. I pretended to read it with mild curiosity, but let’s be real — I had it open in one tab while Googling “What is Vedic astrology and how is it different from normal astrology and does it come with instructions?”
I skimmed it and then bookmarked it. There was one line I couldn’t shake:
“You will learn to heal your mother wound and fully show up for your emotional body wisdom.”
I didn’t know what it meant at the time. I still don’t, entirely. But it lodged in me. Like it was waiting.
What I Wanted Most
Last year I had a miscarriage. What I wanted most was for my mom to hold me and say, “I know, baby, I know.” But she didn’t understand. She couldn’t hold the words long enough to grasp them.
She looked at me like I was telling her a riddle. Her face didn’t change. And mine broke.
Wanting to be mothered by someone who’s still alive but already slipping beyond reach is one of the loneliest things I’ve ever felt.
And somewhere in the fog of that grief, that old horoscope floated back up, like it had been quietly circling, waiting for its moment. I still didn’t know what it meant. But I knew it was mine to live through.
Because the truth is, I’ve always wanted to be a mother. And for a long time, I was terrified of it. I don’t want to pass down the parts of me that are still afraid. Still tangled. Still trying to prove I’m enough.
That fear doesn’t run the show anymore. But it still shows up sometimes, in whispers, in worry, in all the places I’m still learning to hold.
But in the silence my mother now lives in, I’ve started learning how to mother myself. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But enough to keep going. Enough to begin again.
The Mirror, the Apprentice
When I was little, my mother’s bathroom felt like a palace. Two sinks. A vanity with golden fixtures. Lipsticks stacked like precious stones. I’d twist them open, hypnotized by their names — Rum Raisin, Blushing Coral, Blood Moon. I’d watch her lean into the magnifying mirror, mouth slightly open, eyes sharp with concentration, femininity distilled in liner and scent.
It was spellwork. And I was the apprentice.
Now, her hands are shaky. But her desire is still the same: to love, to care, to look beautiful, to feel alive.
The other night, after a long day of nothing in particular, just moving from kitchen to couch to toilet and back again, she looked up at me and in a rare moment of coherent speech said, “Let’s put lipstick on.”
I chose the brightest one. Painted her lips slowly. Gave her the mirror. And she smiled like a kid. A big, pure smile. Like the color had reminded her she still existed.
And maybe, in some strange full-circle way, I’m the spell now.
The Moon We Share
It’s June 11, a full moon in Sagittarius, the moon sign my mom and I share. I only learned that years after she lost the ability to fully communicate, and by then, it felt more like confirmation than surprise.
I once found a verse in Luke — something about signs in the sun and moon and stars. I wanted it to mean she didn’t have to choose between the stars and God. Maybe I still do.
Sagittarius moons want answers. They want to believe there’s a lesson. But what I’m learning now, in this long, slow caregiving, in this season of not-knowing, is that not everything needs to be named to be meaningful. Some things just are. They happen. They hurt. They soften us. And if we’re lucky, they shape us into someone who can stay present through it.
And maybe that’s what I’ve been walking through, slowly and clumsily, from daughter to caregiver, from grief to grace, from child to maybe-mother. I’m still healing. Still aching. Still lighting candles I don’t always know how to name.
But this morning, I rubbed lavender oil into my hands. I read her horoscope. I read mine. I got ready for the day.
Lipstick. Silence. A smile. Maybe that’s the whole prayer.
In celebration of my mom’s and my shared Sagittarius moon...
I'm offering a free class tonight, let’s hang out:
Ovulation Magic: Harness Your Cycle for the Conscious Creation of Your Life
Tuesday, June 11th @ 5pm PT / 8pm ET — Live on Zoom. This is a space for reconnecting with your cycle, your intuition, and the quiet power of showing up for yourself. You don’t need to be ovulating to come. You just need to be curious.
Join the free class → register here.
If you're looking for deeper support...
The Antidote Women’s Collective is my ongoing space for women unlearning burnout and returning to softness. It’s part community, part group coaching, part moon circle — a space to remember who you were before the world told you to harden. We're moving through the solstice season slowly and intentionally, and there's a special enrollment rate open now for limited time. Learn more here.
For more personalized guidance, you can also book a free 1:1 discovery call with me → I work with high-achieving women who are ready to lead with power, presence, and tenderness.
And...If you're drawn to the rhythms of care and the quiet medicine of the body, my free Sacred Cycles Herbal Guide is for you — a companion I created from the same soil this story grew from.
With love,
Christina
