The Moon Made Me Do It (Probably)

So one day, I’m sitting on the couch in my designated existential crisis hoodie, eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon I may or may not have rinsed off after using it to stir my coffee, and I thought:

“Why am I absolutely unhinged right now? I mean, more than usual.”

I wasn’t sad exactly. I wasn’t mad either. I was just… feral. My emotions were bouncing off the walls like raccoons on Adderall. I had cried about a commercial for dish soap, gotten into a full-blown argument with my own inner monologue, and reorganized the spice cabinet alphabetically twice. Something was clearly off.

So I did what any spiritually confused adult with mild trust issues and access to the internet does—I Googled:

“Why do I feel insane today?”

And guess what? Boom. Full moon.

That’s when it hit me like a sage bundle to the face.

What if the moon is screwing with me?

What if, like the ocean, my inner swamp is also ruled by the giant sky rock?

I decided to test the theory.

I made a chart. Like a real one. With phases and symbols and everything. I started journaling every day like a hormonal werewolf trying to get ahead of their transformation schedule. New moon? I felt like deleting all my social media and starting a worm farm. First quarter? Suddenly I had 14 ideas, no focus, and the urge to rearrange furniture. Full moon? Oh honey, that’s when the spiritual fireworks show kicked off. I was raw, inspired, emotional, wildly intuitive, and also slightly homicidal. Like a Disney princess who just got ghosted.

And the waning moon?

That’s when I enter my “drag the skeletons out of the closet and redecorate with shadow work” phase. It’s quiet. Reflective. Slightly judgmental. The vibe is “therapist with a grudge.”

It was all starting to make sense.

One night during a full moon, my wife found me standing barefoot in the backyard whispering into a mason jar of moon water like I was about to summon a forest nymph or curse the neighbor’s lawn. She didn’t even ask anymore. She just handed me a hoodie and said, “Don’t forget to write it down.”

And I did. Every day. Now I’ve got an unhinged, emotionally explosive scrapbook of my moon moods, and I have to say—I’ve never felt more seen… by the damn moon.

So if you ever catch me crying into a grilled cheese or angrily saging the garage, check the moon phase.

Because odds are?

It’s not me.

It’s her.

And she’s in retro emotional warfare mode.