May is one of those in-between months that feels like a cosmic exhale. It is not quite the sleepy stillness of early spring, and not yet the full-sprint energy of summer. It is the warm cup of tea between what was and what is about to be. A beautiful, awkward bridge month where the air smells like honeysuckle and change, and everyone seems to be wondering if it is time to leap—or nap. This is the sweet spot. The season of almost. And nothing says “almost” better than the metaphor of the butterfly. Nature’s most glamorous late bloomer. Nobody rushes a butterfly. No one knocks on the chrysalis and says, “Hey, hurry up in there.” We all instinctively understand that transformation takes time. It is messy, silent, and sacred. And yet, when it is our own metamorphosis on the line, we start tapping our toes like the caterpillar is taking too long. Sound familiar? If life has felt a little upside down lately, take heart. You might not be stuck. You might just be in the cocoon. Welcome to the chrysalis phase, where everything old dissolves and everything new has not quite arrived yet. This is the pause before the pivot, and it is sneakily powerful—even when it feels like nothing is happening. It is the sacred stillness between chapters, where the old identity begins to unravel thread by thread, and the new one is not yet fully formed. To the outside world, it may look like inertia. But beneath the surface? A quiet storm of transformation is underway. Cells are rearranging, truths are being rewritten, and the soul is quietly negotiating its next leap forward. This is not stalling—it is sacred preparation. A necessary breath before the exhale. A hush before the symphony begins. There is a special brand of exhaustion that comes with being on the cusp of change. Fatigue rolls in not because you are lazy, but because your soul is preparing for a rewrite. You may find yourself confused, isolated, or overwhelmed by sudden bursts of clarity that fade just as quickly. You may be evaluating friendships, goals, wardrobes, hair colors—anything that no longer fits the person quietly unfolding inside of you. This is not chaos. This is the wisdom of rest. The cocoon stage is not for action—it is for sacred surrender. It is a gentle invitation to stop grasping, stop pushing, stop trying to control the outcome with spreadsheets and spiritual to-do lists. This is not the time to hustle your way to healing. It is permission, full and loving permission, to stop trying to force things into bloom and to instead honor the stillness that knows what it is doing. Rest is not wasted time. It is not laziness, nor is it weakness. It is deep, cellular preparation. It is the recalibration of your entire being before the breakthrough arrives. It is the moment in the movie when the main character looks out the window, music rising, before everything begins to change. And even though the audience cannot see it yet—something within them already has. The cocoon is where the old self quietly dissolves to make space for something truer. It is not glamorous. It is not efficient. But it is where the real magic happens. In the soft dark. In the quiet wait. In the pause so potent, it becomes the very foundation of your next flight. Transformation does not happen in the light. It begins in the dark, far away from the sight of the world and so very far away from applause. It starts when we allow the discomfort to do its job. Growth is not a spa day. It is more like emotional composting. Everything you thought was falling apart is, in truth, breaking open. So if it has felt heavy lately, take a breath. That pressure might be the exact energy needed to mold you into something new. The alchemy of becoming is not glamorous. It is crying at strange commercials. It is rewriting your plans on the back of a grocery receipt. It is waking up one morning with the sudden urge to start a podcast, change careers, plant tomatoes, or raise mini-goats. But then, something shifts. Suddenly, you notice you are not just thinking about change. You are feeling it. You catch yourself daydreaming. You pick up an old journal and write something bold in the margin. A new idea starts whispering to you at night, and it feels a little terrifying—but also wildly exciting. This is what it feels like to emerge. Emerging with wings is not a flawless process. Do not expect to soar straight away. Butterflies, even the most majestic ones, take a moment to dry off. You may stumble, just like a mini-goat. You may second-guess. But make no mistake—you are becoming. Every step, no matter how small, is sacred. As you step into this new chapter, be gentle with yourself. Let go of the idea that you must have it all figured out. You are allowed to evolve without explanation. You are allowed to shift your identity without holding a press conference. This version of you—the one guided by intuition and grounded in truth—is allowed to take up space. What feels expansive right now? What small, brave step is calling to you? Maybe it is signing up for that class on the care and feeding of mini-goats, or finally saying what you mean. Maybe it is deleting the app, the email, or the entire narrative you have been repeating for too long. Maybe it is releasing someone you thought was your friend. Whatever it is, follow it. Expansion rarely roars. It usually hums. To support this sacred shift, consider reaching for a few soul-nourishing tools. A sound bath, for example, can reset your nervous system like a lullaby for your cells. Solfeggio frequencies, especially those tuned to healing, are powerful allies when it comes to clearing old emotional debris. Music is not just entertainment—it is medicine. Or try a simple
Tending the Inner Garden
What Weeds in Your Life Need Pulling? May has arrived like an old friend carrying a basket of possibility and a bouquet of wildflowers. There is something about this month—the way it rolls in with more sunshine than sense, the way the air smells like second chances—that feels like an open door. The Earth is shaking off its sleep, stretching its limbs, and unfurling with quiet confidence. Everything seems to be reaching upward, eager to grow. And perhaps, deep down, so are we. For those who follow the stars—or who simply felt like the past two months steamrolled through their emotional landscape with all the grace of a runaway lawnmower—the recent eclipse season was no joke. There was a solar eclipse to wake us up, a lunar eclipse to wring us out, and enough inner upheaval to make even the most grounded person wonder if the cosmos was using us as a science experiment. But now, after the dust has settled and the sky has stitched itself back together, May steps forward with her hands on her hips and says, “Alright, darling. Now what are you going to do with all this space?” This, it turns out, is the perfect question. Because every soul, whether it is polished or slightly frayed, has a garden within. Some call it the spirit. Others refer to it as the emotional body, the subconscious, or the inner sanctum. But no matter what name you give it, it is there—living and breathing inside you, shaped by your experiences, your stories, and your dreams. And like any good garden, it needs tending. There are seasons when all we can do is survive. Weeds take root when no one is looking. They creep in through heartbreak, disappointment, fear, or the slow erosion of boundaries. They might disguise themselves as practicality or people-pleasing. They might look like overcommitment or that one friendship you keep out of guilt rather than joy. You know the one. Sometimes, they are not even weeds. They are plants that once served a purpose but have now outgrown their usefulness. Like that ivy of perfectionism—lush and determined, but choking out every breath of joy. May does not demand that you bulldoze your entire soul and start over. It asks you to take a good look at what is growing and decide—gently, lovingly, and perhaps with a little ruthlessness—what needs to stay and what has worn out its welcome. This is the month when we pull on our metaphorical gloves, grab the trowel of introspection, and poke around in the soil of our lives. It is messy work, to be sure. See those beautiful roses over there? Yeh, those. Look closer. That’s right, they protect themselves with razor sharp thorns. No one emerges from weeding unscathed. You will get dirt under your nails. You might uncover a few forgotten hurts buried beneath and discover why you are always busy and on the go. You might even find an old goal from 2017 still sprouting despite your best efforts to ignore it. The truth is, when it’s quiet around us and there is nowhere to go, nothing to do, we are left with only one option–to take a deep look and see who is lurking inside of us. But make no mistake—this is sacred work. Every time you name a pattern that no longer serves you, you make room for healing. Every time you say, “I deserve better than this,” you create space for grace. And every time you choose yourself—quietly, fiercely, without apology—you plant something beautiful. So, my darling, it’s time to shovel the… manure… and get the beds ready. The seed catalog just arrived and it’s time to plant. Of course, no one said this process would be tidy. Healing rarely is. You may find yourself crying over a cup of tea, laughing mid-meltdown, or talking to your houseplants like they are your spiritual advisors. This is all perfectly normal. In fact, it is encouraged. So where does one begin? Begin by noticing what has become overgrown. Are there parts of your life that feel cluttered, not just with stuff, but with obligations that no longer align with your heart? Are there thoughts you repeat to yourself like bad elevator music—subtle but maddening? Perhaps your weed is called self-doubt. Or maybe it answers to the name of comparison. It might show up as avoidance, procrastination, or that little voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like your high school gym teacher saying you will never measure up. That’s right–today is the day we climb that rope up to the top of the ceiling. Whatever it is, May invites you to name it. And then, slowly and steadily, begin the gentle process of letting it go. If you feel brave, grab a journal and write down the things you are ready to release. If you feel silly, talk to yourself out loud. Light a candle. Burn the list. Dance in your living room to a song that reminds you of who you were before the world told you who to be. This is your garden. There are no rules here, only rhythms. And while you are clearing space, remember this: nature abhors a vacuum. Once you pull a weed, something new will want to grow in its place. Be intentional about what you plant. Choose seeds of peace, courage, joy, and purpose. Tend them with care. Water them with kindness, love, and compassion. Give them the sunlight of your attention. Over time, they will grow. In this season of longer days and warming skies, there is a natural momentum that supports your transformation. You do not have to force it. You simply have to align with it. Walk barefoot. Sit with your thoughts instead of running from them. Laugh more. Cry when you need to. And for the love of compost, stop apologizing for needing time to bloom. The Earth is not in a rush, and neither are you. Let May be your invitation
