A Day After the Wolf Moon

It’s been some time since I last wrote. Long enough that I can say this honestly now, no wonder The Hermit came up in my cards under the full moon. This wasn’t a pause I announced or explained in real time. It was the kind of inward turning that happens when words need to catch up to experience, when reflection has to mature before it can be shared. I didn’t disappear. I went quiet in the way the soul does when it’s listening closely. Under the Wolf Full Moon, I understood why.

One day later, I found myself at a gathering, and something there crystallized what these past weeks have been teaching me. I watched a room full of people willingly, knowingly lean into discomfort of a highly medicial herbal eye drop. Not performative discomfort. Not surface-level challenge. But real, temporary pain, the kind that asks something of you. The kind that tightens the chest for a moment, that brings resistance to the surface, that makes you want to pull away before you remember why you came. And still, they stayed.

They leaned in together, trusting that what waited on the other side would be worth it. And it was. I could feel it as it happened, the shift from tension to groundedness, from holding to release, from effort to ease. The room softened. Breath deepened. Something collective settled. What emerged wasn’t euphoric or dramatic. It was serene. Clean. Rooted.

That moment stayed with me. Because it mirrored something I’ve been living quietly for a while now, the understanding that meaningful transformation doesn’t avoid discomfort, but it doesn’t glorify it either. It moves through it with intention, with consent, with trust that there is another side.

As I watched the facilitators hold that space, steady, present, aligned, I felt something unmistakable. Not comparison. Not urgency. But recognition. Our paths are aligned. Not because they look the same, but because they move with the same integrity. The same respect for timing. The same devotion to creating experiences that don’t rush people into healing, but invite them to arrive at it honestly.

I could feel what’s coming, not as a list of plans, but as a shared direction. A convergence. A quiet building of something rooted and sustainable, something that understands both the courage it takes to step in and the care it takes to guide others through.

The ideas that have been pouring out of me since then, like the Intuition Awakening Guided Meditation, are arriving from that place. Not from pressure or performance, but from observation, resonance, and trust. They’re arriving whole, already shaped by experience, already grounded in what I’ve witnessed and felt.

What struck me most about that gathering was how calm I felt inside it.

I wasn’t scanning the room.
I wasn’t calculating outcomes.
I wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

I was fully present, watching, sensing, learning. And that’s when I realized something important: intuition doesn’t always speak in flashes. Sometimes it speaks in stillness, in moments where nothing needs to be proven and everything simply is.

This season of quiet, of inward listening, of watching others courageously step through temporary discomfort toward clarity, it’s all part of the same lesson. The Hermit didn’t come to pull me away from the world. It came to teach me how to see it more clearly.

And now, with that clarity settling in, I can feel the path opening, not all at once, not loudly, but steadily, intentionally, with a kind of calm confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself.

This is how the work unfolds.

With patience.
With presence.
With trust in the process, and in each other.

With grounded breath and open hands,
Kelley