LOVE PRIORITIES
Being with somebody who really gets you and accepts all of who you are—that's what Venus in Libra wants. Venus's entry into her home sign may feel especially romantic as she opposes the dreamy, mystical planet Neptune.
I'm a Libra sun... and a Libra Venus. So what does August 8th, 2026 mean to me?
Oh, Venus is entering Libra, her home sign. What does that even mean? I swear I'm barely romantic, at least this is what I've been told on numerous occasions by people who, at the time, would've been categorized as lovers... boyfriends... husbands.
Now, before this sounds too "poor me" and "men ain't shit," the horoscope did set a tone.
Being with somebody who really gets you and accepts all of who you are.
That's all well and good, unless you edit yourself.
You are so insecure and fearful of rejection, you quietly remove anything you suspect won't be accepted. You tailor—a bespoke personality—based on inaccurate data. You optimize for approval from people who haven't even met you yet. Then they never get the chance to know "all of who you are."
And if I dig a little deeper (insert tired archaeology analogy or peeling-back-the-layers-of-an-onion metaphor here), I was so hell-bent on LOVE... true love... from such an early age that I'm not even sure the "who you are" was fully formed before I started inserting (metaphorically and literally) guys into it.
The horoscope assumes there's a fully realized person waiting to be accepted.
I'm not sure there was.
Maybe there couldn't have been.
Maybe I spent so much time trying to become someone's future wife and soul mate that I forgot to become myself first.
What is that thing one dude had tattooed across his chest that I thought was the dumbest shit ever?
Oh yeah.
Only God Can Judge Me.
Maybe his tattoo had a point I was too busy rolling my eyes to notice, as I closed them instead and feigned porn squeals in hopes he'd finish faster and get off me.
But this isn't that. But it is that.
It's that I've cataloged so many poor experiences that I've let a handful of lame asses color my today and my tomorrow.
Why? Where are they now?
These men who had such a definitive impact on my body and its immediate reactions?
Well, one, according to the Indiana sex offender registry, was last known to live in a Pep Boys parking lot.
Another is dead. My therapist said his obituary read like it had been written by someone who didn't love him. Funny, when I read it, it sounded exactly like him. Pompous. Know-it-all. Still proving he had one more trivia fact rattling around in his brain-dead head than you.
Another is still married to the girl he cheated on me with. I think they're happy. Or maybe they're not. I'm making assumptions based on a Facebook profile picture that's five years old.
They scattered.
Thankfully, far from me.
But my body didn't.
My body still flinches before my mind catches up.
And expects things my life no longer contains.
My body keeps trying to protect someone who doesn't exist anymore.
And to be frank, I don't think I could point to a single "if this had been different, my life would be better" moment.
This really isn't about the past.
It's about the present and the future.
My present. My future.
Not that long ago I wrote:
Every day, my present self should do something to make the next day easier for my future self. That is actual self-love.
I keep coming back to that.
Because isn't that what everyone should be doing?
Doing one thing today that tomorrow's version of themselves gets to inherit.
Looking back, I spent so many relationships trying to decipher what they wanted that I barely paused to ask what I wanted. I manipulated my words, my body, my actions—all to arrive at a specific ending.
Funny, my husband says I care too much about getting things done and not how they're done.
It doesn't even feel like criticism.
Just observation.
I'm all destination.
All outcome.
No journey.
No being in the moment.
And maybe that wasn't just how I approached work or projects or chores.
Maybe that's how I approached love.
Love wasn't something to experience.
It was something to accomplish.
A finish line.
A gold star.
A husband.
Winner winner chicken dinner.
Maybe that's why I spent so long editing myself. I was so focused on arriving somewhere that I never stopped to notice who was making the trip.
Maybe this is what forty is.
Not suddenly becoming wise.
Not magically healing.
Just becoming much more careful about where you spend yourself.
Being judicious with your time and energy.
Only dipping your toes into rivers that feel cool against your skin.
Not worrying so much what the river thinks of you.
Just because I was born somewhere, know a few people there, doesn't mean I can't move somewhere new, befriend new people, and do new things.
I'm not shackled to who I've been.
Madeleine L'Engle wrote,
"The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been."
I think that's true.
I haven't lost my younger selves.
And I won't keep asking them to make my decisions.
I've already lived my youth.
I didn't lose a thing.
But I want something new now: older, steadier, wiser...something entirely my own.
