The Full Moon Was My First Real Home

Okay, so. This is a little scary to share. I’ve never really talked about this part of my life publicly. But if we’re going to talk about real, raw, down-in-the-dirt manifestation, I have to start at the beginning. The really, *really* messy beginning.

My reality until I was 19 was… oppressive. I grew up in the foster system, and the messaging was constant: you are a problem to be managed, your future is limited, survival is the only goal. It’s funny how those voices don’t just live outside of you; they move in, unpack their bags, and start redecorating your own thoughts. By the time I aged out, my mind was a house full of their ugly furniture. I got a job the second I could, but even working 30 hours a week while in college wasn't enough. The math just didn't math. My car became my bedroom, and when I couldn't afford gas to keep the heat on, park benches became my bed.

It was on one of those benches, during a particularly bright full moon, that I hit my breaking point. I was so tired of being cold. But I was even more tired of the noise in my head. I remember looking up at this… this giant, silent, glowing rock in the sky. And I had this thought, clear as anything: *It sees me, but it doesn’t judge me.*

That was the crack in the door.

I didn't know anything about astrology then. I just knew that the moon felt peaceful. I started reading everything I could get for free on the library computers. I learned that the full moon isn’t just a pretty light. It’s a peak. A culmination. It’s when the energy of the lunar cycle is at its most intense, illuminating everything—especially what we’ve been trying to hide from ourselves. Back then, what was being illuminated was my own powerlessness. But the ancients also taught that this peak energy is perfect for *releasing* what no longer serves you.

So, I started a practice. It was embarrassingly simple. Every full moon, I’d find a spot—bench, car, whatever—and I’d just… talk to the moon. I’d thank it for the light. I’d list off all the ugly furniture in my head I was evicting. “I release the belief that I am not safe. I release the feeling of being a burden.” I’d say it out loud, to the sky. It felt silly. But it also felt real.

Then, I’d get quiet. And I’d try to *feel*—not just think, but *feel in my body*—what it would be like to have a key to my own front door. To feel safe. To feel warm. I’d imagine the weight of a key in my hand, the click of the lock. I’d try to generate the *sensation* of relief. For just 60 seconds, I would let my nervous system believe the reality I was choosing, not the one I was stuck in.

I’m not going to tell you I won the lottery the next day. The process was slower, more practical. But opportunities—a better job, a kind person with a room to rent—started to appear. It was as if by clearing out the internal clutter under the full moon’s light, I made space for new, better things to actually *find* me.

It’s wild to be writing this now from my own apartment, with a window that looks right at the sky. Putting this out there feels like the next level of manifestation for me—being vulnerable, sharing what actually worked, and connecting with others who might be on a similar path. It’s a little embarrassing, but it also feels right.

Maybe this was the point all along. If you’re reading this, maybe you were meant to. Maybe your own journey is asking to be rewritten, too.

If you want to follow along with mine, well… you can find me elsewhere. I’m still figuring it out as I go, just like everyone else.