Dirty dishes in the sink, I keep putting off. Three hours of wisdom-swapping with a dear friend. Tears. Calling my mom she hears the sadness in my voice immediately, because Mom. That small, young, wounded part of me raging.
Forgetting who the fuck I am. Again.
The beauty of a yoga practice that brings me to my knees because it's hard. Really hard. A dear friend visiting. A panicked phone call to my ex that I immediately regretted. Reaching for something old when the pain got loud. Sitting in the shower. A sunrise, a sunset.
These are just a few moments from the past few weeks as I've worked with through a transit Sun, Mercury, and Uranus moving through my natal Chiron, 6th house Taurus.
The 6th house governs the body and daily life, ordinary days, and Chiron here wounds us in our relationship to worthiness, to whether we trust ourselves to tend to our own needs. Taurus makes it physical: this wound doesn't live in the mind, it lives in the flesh, in the nervous system, in the body's own sense of whether it is safe.
Chiron is a small asteroid-comet hybrid, sometimes called a dwarf planet, but what matters here is what he represents in the birth chart: Chiron is the Wounded Healer.
In Greek mythology, Chiron is a centaur — half man, half horse. He's wise, gentle, and gifted: a master of medicine, music, and hunting, and something of an oracle. He becomes an important teacher, mentoring some of mythology's great heroes.
One day, he's accidentally struck by one of Hercules' poisoned arrows. The wound never heals. Chiron has to live with it, and in living with it, the wound becomes part of what shapes him, part of what allows him to transcend his own suffering and become a guide for others. Eventually, Zeus immortalizes him by placing him among the stars in the constellation of Sagittarius. (Hello, recent Full Moon in Sagittarius)
We all carry a Chiron somewhere in our birth chart. A wound we don't get to put down.
My great-grandmother, in her late thirties, was taken from her eight-year-old twin daughters and put into an institution. They said she was crazy, mentally ill, unfit. It doesn't matter exactly what they said; someone somewhere decided she was too much and put her away. Her daughters never saw her again. From what I understand, she wasn't stark raving mad. She probably did need support, possibly medication, a good psychiatrist (who doesn’t). At that time, especially for a woman, if you couldn't fit what was considered normal or addressable, you could simply be removed. And she was.
My grandmother, one of the twins, was the most loving, beautiful woman, meticulous in her appearance, letting me play for hours in her jewelry box and draping me head to toe in her jewels. She married a man who provided but was largely emotionally absent and drunk for most of their marriage. It wasn't until his sober sixties that some walls came down, and he allowed for moments of real vulnerability and love. To me, he was the greatest grandfather. But from the lessons of my own marriage, I imagine my grandmother was profoundly lonely as a wife, and human.
My grandmother inherited her mother's lesson: if you're too loud, too much, they do away with you. So she did the opposite. She painted her nails, perfected her outfits, and swallowed her loneliness. A good wife. A good mother. But I think she only ever knew parts of herself; the other parts, she learned to deny. These regrets and parts came out much later in life; she’d scratch at her arms without even realizing it, leaving welts. She was anxious; the kind of anxious, knowing life may have been half-lived.
For me, the story has been this: that I am somehow both too much and not enough at the same time. That, at some fundamental level, there is something wrong with me.
This is my wound. It was passed down to my bones. And it is my work, not to erase it, but to be with it. To honor the women before me by finding the freedom that carrying a wound like this can actually offer. To show up in community and in relationship and say: this is part of who I am and to love and be loved anyway.
This isn't about poor self-esteem. I love myself deeply, and I am held by people I love and who love me. But the Chiron wound is different; it lives in the body. It's the residue of ancestral trauma, passed quietly through generations. It's a soft spot we all carry, and when the right person or experience comes along, that soft spot gets exposed. And that, actually, is the blessing. That's where the real work begins — the practice of allowing, of moving toward full acceptance rather than away from it.
What I finally understood these past few weeks, in both a spiritual and somatic way, is this: I cannot fix this wound. There is nothing to fix.
No amount of astrology, yoga, meditation, or medicine will make it disappear. My work isn't to fix it. It's to carry it. To create space for it. To meet it with gentleness. To recognize that there is nothing actually wrong, there is just awareness, and the ongoing practice of allowing.
That realization is a big deal, at least for me. Maybe it also supports your journey.
For so long, I've wanted to heal myself out of this "problem." And I think that in trying so hard to ignore or outrun what I was carrying, I only amplified its presence and its impact.
My mother, my grandmother’s daughter, came into motherhood as we all do with her own wounds and hopes. Like all of us, she didn’t have all the right answers, but she loved me and believed in me; she took the time to know me deeply. I asked about her wounds once, and she said she didn’t think much of them and it was best to just keep moving forward. She did, she still does. My mom, without even knowing, has gifted me permission and courage to be with Chiron in the 6th House Taurus, exploring the feelings of ‘too much and not enough-ness’. An opportunity to touch a new and different kind of freedom.
Chrion, at this highest expression, is Sagittarian. The energy of wisdom of truth-seeking, of turning suffering into insight, and offering that insight back to the community. It's the energy of the teacher, the healer, the one who has been through something and comes back to say: here is what I found. Chiron, after all, ends up in the stars of Sagittarius. The wound and the wisdom, held together.
