Trigger Warning: Honest talk about pregnancy complications, surgery, and emotional healing.
I need to get something off my chest.
Lately, I’ve seen a flood of fear-mongering astrology videos on social media—and honestly, it’s been weighing on me. Many of these creators lack a nuanced understanding of astrology, yet they speak with authority, telling people that certain planetary placements are a death sentence. That’s not only inaccurate—it’s harmful. And as an astrologer and a mother, I’m not okay with it.
As some of you know, I have a daughter, and I’ve been using her astrology chart—and her Human Design—to help me parent her in a way that honors her soul. One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned through my own healing is that children aren’t meant to be carbon copies of their parents. They don’t need to be taught how to conform to our version of the world. They need to be seen, understood, and supported as they are.
My daughter has a Scorpio Moon in the fourth house. And if I’m being completely honest, at first, this placement devastated me. My postpartum mind was looping through basic interpretations: Scorpio doesn’t “like” being in the Moon. The fourth house is ruled by Cancer, the Moon’s home sign, and the sign of the Mother. Would this mean I was destined to break my daughter? Would our bond be painful?
But something in me said: No. That’s not the whole story. That’s not even the truth.
I’ve spent the past six years doing deep, soul-level healing so I could be the mother my daughter deserves. I’ve let go of almost everything that used to define me to be fully present for my velcro baby who needs me nearly every minute of the day. Not because I expect anything in return—just because I love her, unconditionally.
So I dug deeper. I studied the Moon more thoroughly. I explored Scorpio Moons—especially in the fourth house. I learned how babies can energetically absorb the emotional blueprint of their parents. My husband is a Scorpio Sun and Rising, with a Cancer Moon. Suddenly, her Moon sign felt less like a burden and more like an echo—of him, of us, of soul contracts stretching across lifetimes.
She has her Moon in the fourth house, just like I do. She’s a Leo Rising; I’m an Aquarius Rising—opposites on the zodiac wheel. Her North Node is in Leo; mine’s in Aquarius. She is here to learn from an Aquarian. I begged the universe for a child I could love purely, and she arrived, cosmically aligned with my chart and my soul.
But the story doesn’t stop with astrology.
When I was six weeks pregnant, the nausea hit hard. Morning sickness lasted all day. Thanks to the hormone relaxin, I developed pinched nerves in my neck and spine. I lost full use of my arms for weeks. I was in survival mode, terrified that the pain I felt might somehow impact the baby inside me.
Then, at 20 weeks, doctors found a tumor on my ovary. I had to undergo an MRI while pregnant, not knowing if I’d need emergency surgery. I was terrified—of dying, of leaving my baby, of something going wrong. After she was born, I had surgery to remove one ovary entirely and tumors from the other.
And through all of it, she felt me. Her Scorpio Moon—deep, intuitive, perceptive—soaked in the emotional waves I was navigating, in utero and Earthside. These are the depths of Scorpio. This is the emotional intelligence of a soul that feels everything, even when nothing is said.
This is not a curse. It’s a gift. It’s wisdom. It’s legacy.
Astrology is not a prison—it’s permission.
It’s an invitation to understand ourselves and one another on a soul level.
When I read a chart, I look at the whole picture. I offer insights with compassion, reminding people to take what resonates and leave the rest. We are not here to be afraid of our birth charts—we are here to embody them.
So please—let’s stop spreading basic, fear-based interpretations, especially from people who don’t know what they’re talking about.
We can do better.
We must do better.
Because our children—and our inner children—deserve that much.