The Moon Sheds

The moon never clings.

Or at least that’s what I keep trying to remind myself.

It grows, it fades, loosens its hold, and surrenders to the night.

I’ve been training for this my entire life—the slow art of shedding, the practice of letting go of what was never meant to be held forever.

A few weeks ago, during a massage—me on the table, the receiver this time—the therapist pressed above the bony flesh of my right hip and said she heard whispers from my past. They were the ghosts of my four‑year‑old self who have never truly left my side, imaginary friends who kept me company as I first experienced my body as its own.

They were the first friends I ever lost—the first who held on for a little while and then left; the ones who never fully arrived.

And here I am—still whole in my separateness, still whole even while shedding. Still whole because I’m learning to trust that, despite the pain of impermanence, what fades was never truly mine.

Child‑me knew how to survive the sting—speaking to her ghosts, tracing their shadows along the hollow wall—until night kissed them farewell when sunlight splattered across the paint‑chipped windowsill.

Grown‑me is beginning to comprehend that every loss—real or imagined—is a testament to being alive.

And so I welcome this shedding,

an opening—

a soft revealing of a higher octave.

The wild, brave one who has been waiting.

She is full of breath.

She is iridescent.

She is learning to stand firm on her own.