Moon Time for Men…My Accidental Spiritual Period

So it started like most revelations do: with my wife, a cup of coffee, and the sort of domestic anthropology that only married people get into. Lacey, who’s got more dirt under her nails than half the nurseries in this state, was telling me about her cycles not the awkward “ugh I’m cranky” kind, but the deep, old-fashioned kind. The kind that listens to the moon and the soil and the way the light skips across the tomatoes in July.

She talked about being fuller in spring, quieter in winter, more stormy on full moons. And she said it like she was stating the weather, not confessing a magic trick. Like it was obvious. Like I should already know this because apparently everyone else did and I was the one who’d slept through the lecture.

“That’s because women are built to keep rhythm,” she said. “It’s wired. It’s biology and spirit in one package.”

I nodded, as men nod when they hear science they don’t want to pretend to understand. Then she grinned and added, “You should try it. See if you notice anything.”

See, here’s where the trouble begins: I am not a man who takes suggestions lightly. I take them like a dare. Also like an offense. Like a culinary insult that needs to be disproven with a skillet. So naturally I went full stubborn. “Me? Have a cycle? No way. I have oil changes and a temperament,” I told her. “My emotional calendar is two gears and a questionable muffler.”

But Lacey kept dropping little breadcrumbs. “Try sleeping under the moon more this month,” she said. “Plant something on the new moon. Light a candle and be quiet. Pay attention.”

Fine. I did it because she asked and because her way of asking sounded suspiciously like, “Do this or we’re arguing at the hardware store.” So I started small: woke up before sunrise, sat on the back step with my coffee and the dog, and watched the world come up. I lit an herb bundle and cursed traffic in the proper ceremonial cadence. I planted basil on the new moon because I felt punky and because basil is free therapy.

First week: nothing. I felt like an idiot and also like a man who had been conned into an occult membership. I spent two days talking to a plant and one full afternoon trying to explain to Bones why the ritual smelled like victory and dirt. Neighbors either thought I’d taken up interpretive gardening or I’d lost my mind. Both might be true.

Then came the shift. It was subtle at first, like someone had turned the dimmer switch on my feelings. I found myself angry about smaller things: the neighbor’s leaf blower at 6 a.m., a recipe that called for “finely chopped” but meant “throw the whole bunch in.” Irritation mounted like rust. I got this weird nesting urge, too, like I wanted to fix everything in the garage and also rearrange the living room by candlelight. I wanted to be quiet and also call my mother and tell her all the secrets I’d been saving for my will.

My first thought was, “Okay, dude, you’re hormonal.” My second thought was, “That can’t be right. Men don’t have cycles.” (Science aside, culturally that’s what we believe, right? Men are a steady thermostat set to ‘meh’.)

Then the moon hit full and…holy hell…the whole thing turned into a riot. My forge felt like a church. I spent the night hammering until my hands buzzed, each strike a sermon. I cried about a dead squirrel that used to be brave and small and lived under the porch. I laughed like a lunatic at a dog chasing his tail. I wanted to call Lacey and tell her I loved her and also demand she stop buying so many gardening books; the contradiction was pure poetry.

After that night the pattern showed up again and again. New moon: slow, laying groundwork, planting, steady hands. Quarter moons: weird bursts of impatience, reorganization, weird cleaning sprees. Full moon: highs and lows so bright it felt like I was emoting in color. It was like someone had installed a seasonal calendar in my chest and I hadn’t read the manual.

Here’s the honest part: calling it a “spiritual menstrual cycle” is me being dramatic for the story, but the metaphor fits. There were times I felt emptied like I’d bled out some part of myself followed by times when I filled back up with fire and purpose. Not physical bleeding, obviously. Unless you count the time I cut my thumb on a stupidly sharp wrench and bled like a soap opera. But emotionally? Absolutely. I had points in the month where I was depleted and points where I felt charged and alive, like a damn battery on full.

The funny thing: the more I leaned into those rituals the moon watching, the planting, the listening the less exhausted I became. People assume traditions are heavy; they think layering on ceremonies is another box to check. But this was the opposite. It was like the rituals were the duct tape holding my chaotic wiring together. So yeah, I started tracking it. Not with an app. With a ragged little notebook where I wrote things like: “Full moon: cried into coffee; fixed carburetor; laughed at old man on mower.” Wild things.

And the more I honored the rhythm, the weaker the grip of the modern world. My phone buzzed less in my head. Social media stopped being the mainline. I stopped measuring success by likes and started measuring by how many potatoes I didn’t kill in July. My calendar replaced meetings with moons, and honestly? The quiet felt like coming home.

Lacey watched this happen with that smug grin she gets when she knows she’s right. “Told you,” she said, holding up a tiny seedling like a trophy. “We all have rhythms you just finally stopped trying to fake being a metronome.”

It’s funny how admitting you’re not a constant can feel like a relief. For a long time I thought if I showed change, I’d be weak. Turns out the opposite is true: honoring the cycle made me steadier. I could weather the dips because I expected them. I could use the peaks to actually get stuff done rather than burn out. Plus, telling people I have a spiritual cycle at parties is an excellent way to clear a room. Seriously, try it once. Works every time.

So what did I learn? That men can have cycles of their own, spiritual, seasonal, emotional…if they pay attention. That women didn’t get the moon’s manual and not tell us out of malice; they were just reading an older book. That rituals aren’t weird they’re scaffolding. That modern life tries to flatten everything into one constant hum, but the world runs on tides and seasons and stubborn rhythms older than accountants.

And most importantly: if you let the earth clock you, you stop trying to sprint all day and you become someone who moves like the tide coming in, going out, making room, bringing things back. You become less frantic and more honest. You become, for lack of a better term, less of a walking malfunction.

So yeah turns out I’m menstrual in spirit. Who knew? Me: a human radiator of feeling, synced up to the moon by accident and by stubbornness, living proof that sometimes being old-fashioned doesn’t mean old-minded. It means remembering how to listen.

Also: if any of you try this, be prepared for Lacey to smirk and for your toolbox to become an altar. And bring better shoes; there’s a lot of barefoot work involved.