Venus Comes Home

August 8: Venus Enters Libra

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.

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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.

Hubris

How big, big, big, big

is the whole wide world

of men—

billions, to be exact.

Elon-money big,

so big

my brain cannot fathom it.

These neurons,

once so certain they were worldly,

fail me yet again.

For from my short leash—

mere mileage.

Mere acreage—

from where a doctor

cut me out

of my mother

in a room

my father

wasn't even welcomed,

I thought

that was the whole expanse

of men.

As though

a handful of zip codes

could stand in

for billions.

Like people

who mistake

their hometown

for the world.

I thought this was all

Y'all were.

This is basically a journal entry.

This is basically a journal entry. There is no mediocre attempt at prose, no literary air, no pretending I'm a writer. This is just a girl and her diary vibe.

Just got done doing yoga and now I'm taking a bath. I had "take a ritual bath" as a goal for June, but I guess August 1st can count.

We secured a housesitter, paid and booked, though it never feels secured till the day of, when they are in the house, with the key, and we are sayonara, peacing out.

Actually, that's not quite true. It doesn't feel secure till the moment we are back, because I worry the whole time they're there.

And while, for a moment, I had grand notions that we would arrive in Florida, spend five days—one day for travel there, one day for travel back, and three days to look at houses—the reality is most likely this is just a recon trip. See some houses, see neighborhoods, go to the grocery store, swim in the hotel pool, go to some AA meetings, and get a feel for the place we want to live.

But if I am being transparent, and there is no reason not to be, we only had two people even look at our current house, and both were a solid no. Didn't even look at every room. Now, we have it overpriced. And of course we currently live here. And the economy. The economy! Why are there a handful of houses, nicer and cheaper than ours, in our neighborhood, for sale and vacant?

Now, if we found "the right house" in Florida, we would buy it. We could float two homes for a while. Heck, we talk about being a two-home family, winter and spring in Florida, summer and fall in Indiana. But it's mostly talk.

But whatever, we need a vacation or whatever. We've only been out of the house a total of ten days since we moved here in 2022. Yeah, ten whole days out of this house in four years. Maybe that's a small source of my hate for the house.

And the leak in the guest room that we've poured money and workers into with no resolution in sight. And the flickering light that the electrician is supposed to fix.

My goodness, listen to me.

I should probably also mention that life has been awesome too. At least more awesome than it's been in a while. I seem to be tapping into some energy I haven't felt in decades. Like a touch of teenager. Maybe.

I started really doing a full skincare routine every day, twice a day, a few months ago, and my face is clearer than ever. I wore makeup more this week than I did in the last three years. I googled contouring for round faces and ordered teeth-whitening strips.

I have been feeling hot. Desirable. Wanted. Captivating. Mesmerizing. Alluring. Irresistible.

Wearing pheromone perfume like who the fuck is that?

Sometimes I feel like a domestic goddess, and I won't go further into that because it's exactly how it sounds. Steak dinner, fresh-baked cookies, apron over my dress with no panties on.

Spritz spritz and a dab dab of that pheromone shit too.

And sometimes I feel like I should learn how to sharpen knives and shoot shotguns and wield nunchucks. It would be nice to have some aim with a throwing star, don't you agree?

I just feel alive in a way I haven't in a while and, earnestly, sometimes want things I had long ago packed in the back of the closet, just never got around to taking to the thrift store to donate. Life, not living, but just life, got in the way. Life like paying a mortgage and calling plumbers, not living like dancing in the office and making up pet names.

My husband says that when the time's right, it will happen. I know this is true.

For the move, for everything else too.

In a small way, I am slightly relieved. No pressure to find the right house on this little vaca getaway. Something about where I'm currently at, where I've been, has got me thinking that maybe there's a surprise around the bend if we stay where we are.

I feel like I'm hurdling toward something, and I don't know what, but I want it and I like it a lot.