🌑 Severing the Invisible Cord

A New Moon Ritual for Souls Ready to Birth Themselves

She doesn't come gentle, this Moon.
She comes with scissors.
She comes to cut what's been feeding you poison disguised as love.

I. The Wet Invitation

Listen.

Beneath your ribs, something ancient stirs. Not memory, but cellular knowing. The kind that lives in bone marrow, in the hollow of your throat where unspoken truths nest, in that space between your shoulder blades where wings once whispered.

Your skin knows what your mind refuses: You've been breathing through someone else's lungs. Loving from someone else's wound. Building home in bodies that were never designed to hold the vastness of you.

This New Moon doesn't arrive for manifestation. She arrives for severance. For the birth of you: naked, dripping, finally untethered.

Tonight, we cut what needs cutting. Tonight, we birth what needs birthing. Tonight, your body remembers what sovereignty tastes like.

II. Cancer: The Cosmic Womb

🌊 Water doesn't think. It feels. It floods. It forms.

Cancer is not a constellation you point to in the sky. Cancer is a frequency: the wet whisper between worlds, the membrane where spirit becomes flesh, where the infinite agrees to limits.

In the hermetic map of incarnation, Cancer serves as the Uterine Gate. The portal through which souls descend from the unmanifest into the tender prison of form.

When your soul chose flesh, it passed through Cancer's waters. Here, in this archetypal womb, your emotional matrix was tattooed into existence:

• how you would experience attachment as survival

• how you would learn to need before you learned to want

• how you would mistake dependency for love, hunger for intimacy, being needed for being chosen.

Cancer remembers everything. The first pulse that wasn't yours but sustained you. The first breath borrowed from another's body. The first time you learned that to be meant to be held. The first betrayal: that holding could become holding back.

Some memories are chains disguised as comfort. Some love is a leash you mistake for safety. Some wombs become the very prisons they were meant to protect you from.

III. The Incarnation Wound

Every soul carries the scar of descent.

When you entered flesh through Cancer's gate, you signed the first covenant of vulnerability: To need another to survive.

This isn't trauma in the psychological sense. This is ontological rawness: the price of having a body, the tax on incarnation.

Feel it now in your chest. That hollow ache beneath your sternum: not heartbreak, but heart-hunger. The place where your ribs remember being pressed against another's breath.

Your first sanctuary wasn't a house or a bed. It was a womb. Your first home was a woman.

There you breathed before you knew breathing. Were loved before you had shape. Were held before you had to earn it. That place - dark, wet, pulsing with foreign heartbeat - still whispers instructions to your nervous system:

"Love is survival. Separation is death."

This is your zero-point sensitivity. Not a wound that someone inflicted, but the tender spot where you first learned: "I need another to know I exist."

And now, decades later, that same frequency pulses through your choice of lovers, your relationship to money, your capacity to receive without performing, your terror of taking up space.

The umbilical cord wasn't cut at birth: it just changed material. Now it's woven from guilt, from need, from the ache for approval that grips your throat when you're about to choose yourself over her comfort.

IV. The Mother Frequency

She gave you life. She gave you her limits.

Your biological mother was not just a person. She was a transmission device— the first radio through which you learned the frequency of being human.

Her womb was your first universe. Her heartbeat, your first music. Her emotions, your first weather. Her fears, your first theology.

In the warm darkness of her body, your nervous system learned to map love:

• How much space you're allowed to take

• What emotions are safe to feel

• Whether the world is abundant or starving

• If you're worthy of unconditional nourishment

• Whether pleasure is dangerous or divine

These patterns live now in your tissue. They pulse through your bloodstream. They whisper in your choice of lovers, your relationship to money, your capacity to say no without explaining why.

She was also the first boundary between you and the infinite. The first editor of your limitless nature. The first translator of your divine hunger into acceptable human portions.

She gave you her wounds disguised as wisdom. Her fears dressed up as protection. Her unlived life masquerading as maternal love. Her own severed dreams presented as your inheritance.

And the cord still pulses. Still feeds you from her wound. Still convinces you that your freedom is her death, that your expansion is her abandonment, that your sovereignty is somehow an act of violence.

This is the lie that keeps you small.

But here's what she couldn't teach you because she never learned it herself:

You can love her and still leave. You can honor her gifts and break her patterns. You can be grateful for the life she gave you without living the limitations she accepted.

V. The Sacred Severance: Ritual of Return

🔥 This isn't rejection. This is reclamation.

What you're really doing isn't abandonment: it's return. Return to the Cosmic Womb - not your mother's, but existence itself.

The place where you're held not because you're needed, but because you are. Where love isn't transaction. Where home isn't location. Where you don't have to earn your place in the universe.

Preparation

Sacred materials for sacred work:

• Red silk thread, long enough to circle your waist three times

• Sharp blade or candle flame

• 13 pieces of paper (one for each moon since your birth-month)

• Bath salts, mugwort, shells that have heard the ocean's secrets

• Your courage. Your rage. Your tenderness.

• Privacy. Silence. The willingness to be undone.

The Four Sacred Cuts

I. Remember the First Water Where you learned the language of being held

Draw your bath as the moon watches. Feel the salt dissolve against your fingers like ancient tears returning home. Add mugwort, that wild mother who remembers what civilization forgot. Add shells, those ancient listeners who carry the ocean's deepest secrets.

Lower yourself slowly. Feel how the warm water receives your weight the way the first womb did, without question, without condition, without end.

Sink until only your lips touch air. Feel your body remember its first perfect embrace. Feel how water holds without grasping, supports without controlling, loves without keeping score.

Now close your eyes. Breathe through your skin. Sink deeper than memory, deeper than story, into the place where your cells first learned: I am held. I am home. I am enough.

Body intelligence checkpoint: Stay until your breathing naturally deepens. Stay until the tension between your shoulder blades melts. Stay until something in your chest releases with a sigh you didn't plan.

This is how you know the water has reached your nervous system. This is how you know you're remembering safety.

Feel this: that quality of being wanted before you performed, before you pleased, before you earned. That's the frequency you've been seeking in every lover's arms.

But here's the secret your mother's body couldn't teach yours: You don't need to find it outside anymore. You need to become it. You need to learn how to hold yourself the way water holds: completely, unconditionally, with liquid devotion.

The cellular shift happens when: Your breath moves from your chest to your belly. Your jaw unclenches without you telling it to. Something behind your ribs says "yes" in a language older than words.

Whisper to your skin: "I am my own first home." Let every cell drink this new truth until it becomes your new gravity.

II. Dance the Tether Loose Movement that breaks invisible chains

Step from the water onto bare earth. Feel the contrast: wet skin, solid ground. Feel how your body temperature shifts, how the air kisses your damp skin.

Stand naked if you can. Clothes hold old frequencies. Tonight, you need to move from your authentic body.

Feel the cord. It's there, threaded through your solar plexus, thick as umbilical rope, invisible as breath. Feel how it tugs when you imagine saying: "I choose me over your comfort."

Notice where it hooks in your body: The tightness in your throat when you want to speak truth. The clench in your gut when you're about to disappoint her. The collapse in your chest when you imagine her displeasure.

This is where the cord lives. Mark these places with your hands.

Now let your body move. No choreography. No performance. This is primal. This is necessary. This is the dance that breaks what shouldn't have been tied.

Begin with your hips. Rock them. Circle them. Let them remember they can move without asking permission. Feel the cord strain as you claim this ancient freedom.

Move into your arms. Reach. Stretch. Push against invisible walls. Imagine pushing away every hand that held you back, every voice that said "don't." Feel your wingspan. Own your space.

Find your voice. Growl. Scream. Laugh. Wail. Let sounds rise from your pelvis, from the place where pleasure and power meet. This isn't healing. This is unleashing.

Dance until: Your breath comes from your belly, not your chest. Your movements feel dangerous, not careful. Something wild wakes up behind your ribs. You can feel the cord stretching, thinning, ready to snap.

The cellular recognition comes when: Your spine straightens without you thinking about it. Your jaw releases tension you didn't know you were holding. Your hands move to protect your own space, not reach for approval.

Stop when your body says: "I remember. I remember how to be untethered."

Feel the difference in your nervous system. Feel how you now take up space like you were born to it. Feel how you now breathe like you don't need permission.

This is sovereignty awakening in your tissue. This is what freedom feels like before your mind talks you out of it.

III. Rewrite the Inheritance Taking what nourishes, releasing what suffocates

Return to stillness. Your skin still electric from movement, your breath still wild from truth-telling.

Sit in the space where you danced, cross-legged on the earth, feeling how the ground holds you differently now.

Take your 13 pieces of paper. Feel their weight. Their potential.

Phase One: The Inventory

Write what she transmitted to you: Her gifts wrapped in thorns. Her wisdom soaked in fear. Her love that tasted like limitation.

"Women shouldn't want too much." "Safety comes from being needed." "Anger makes you ugly." "Don't shine too bright: you'll make others feel small."

Feel each one in your body as you write it. Notice where it contracts you: The squeeze in your chest. The drop in your belly. The way your shoulders curl inward.

Body intelligence checkpoint: Write until your hand starts to feel heavy. Write until something in your throat wants to say "enough." Write until you can feel the weight of what she couldn't carry now sitting in your lap like stones.

Phase Two: The Body Audit

For each inheritance, place your hand on your womb. Feel deeper than thinking. Your womb is ancient. She knows.

Ask each pattern: "Do you serve the woman I'm becoming?" "Do you feed my expansion or my contraction?" "Do you help me love from overflow or from emptiness?"

Your body will answer before your mind interferes:

Yes feels like: warmth spreading through your pelvis, breath deepening, spine naturally straightening.

No feels like: tightness in your throat, shallow breathing, the urge to curl into yourself.

Trust the first response. Your nervous system knows truth faster than your conditioning knows diplomacy.

Phase Three: The Sacred Burning

Keep what makes you more yourself. Burn what makes you smaller.

As each limiting belief feeds the flame, speak: "This was yours to carry. It's not mine to continue." "I release you to your own healing." "I choose differently. I choose expansively. I choose me."

Watch how the smoke moves: Does it rise straight up? Heavy truth being lifted. Does it spiral? Transformation in motion. Does it cling to the ground? More work needed here.

The cellular shift happens when: Your breathing becomes naturally deeper. Your posture opens without effort. Something behind your sternum says "yes" with ancient authority.

Feel how much space opens in your chest when you stop carrying her unlived dreams. Feel how your breath moves differently when it's not filtered through her fears.

Phase Four: The New Covenant

For everything you've released, write a new truth. But don't write from your head. Write from the place that just opened up. Write from the frequency of the woman who no longer needs permission to bloom.

"I take up space like I was born to fill it." "My pleasure is sacred infrastructure." "I love from overflow, not from wound." "My freedom is a gift to the collective, not a betrayal of it."

This phase is complete when: Your handwriting looks different: bolder, more flowing. Your spine feels like it's made of liquid light. You can breathe into your back ribs for the first time in years.

This is how you know you've reclaimed your energetic inheritance. This is how you know you're writing from your own frequency now.

IV. The Silent Cut Severing with love, not violence

This isn't about hatred. This isn't about blame. This is about birth.

And birth requires separation.

Tie the red thread around your waist. Feel it as the last connection that isn't yours to choose. The final tether to a love that costs your freedom.

Take your blade. Or flame. Hold it with reverence. This isn't destruction: it's liberation. This isn't violence, it's birth.

Feel the thread against your skin. Feel how it holds you back from your own life. Feel how it keeps you small, safe, acceptable.

Cut through.

As the thread falls away, speak:

"From you I came, but I am not you. From this moment, I carry myself. Thank you for giving me life. Forgive me for choosing to live it. Thank you for loving me as you could. Forgive me for needing more. I release you to your own path. I claim my own."

Bury the thread. Or release it to running water.

Feel the space where the tether used to be. Feel how your breath moves differently now. Feel how your spine remembers how to be straight.

This is where your new life begins. This is what sovereignty feels like in the body.

The 13 Days After: Mothering Yourself into Being

Learning to breathe alone, learning to love from overflow

Each morning, before you check your phone, before you give your energy to the world, place both hands on your heart and breathe:

"I am my own first love. I am my own safe harbor. What I need, I can give myself. What I can't give myself, I can receive: but not from the wound that made me."

Choose one act of radical self-mothering daily. Let your body choose. Trust what it craves:

• Cook yourself breakfast like you're feeding a goddess who just saved the world

• Hold yourself for 60 seconds without needing anything to change

• Speak to yourself the way you wish she had spoken to you

• Take a shower and actually feel the water blessing every inch of your skin

• Buy yourself flowers because you exist, not because you earned them

• Say no to something you don't want, just because you can

• Wear something that makes you feel dangerous in your own body

• Dance in your kitchen while dinner cooks

• Touch yourself with reverence, not hunger

• Forgive yourself for something without explanation

The New Cord: Self to Self

Draw this symbol above your heart with red lipstick, honey, or your own sacred saliva:

◉ ᚨ ᚱ ᛃ ᛉ ᛟ

Your navel as your sun. Your center as your source.

This is your new umbilical cord. It doesn't connect you to anyone else. It connects you to yourself. To the cosmic womb that births stars. To the source that was always there, waiting for you to remember:

You were never homeless. You just forgot you were the home.

Place your hand on your navel. Feel the scar where you were once connected to her. Now speak to that sacred mark:

"You are my portal to infinite love. My center is my source. My breath is my belonging. I mother myself into being, and I do it beautifully."

🌙 The Return

What you discover on the other side of this cutting is not emptiness, but vastness.

The love that comes after won't come from need. It will pour from overflow. You won't be seeking completion. You'll be offering it.

Your relationships will change. Not because you love less, but because you love from a different place. Not from the wound that says "fill me," but from the well that says "let me pour."

You'll discover that the love you were always seeking: unconditional, unlimited, unearned, was never outside you. It was always your birthright. Your own energy turned inward. Your own heart finally coming home.

This New Moon births you back to yourself. The cord is cut. You are finally, fully, freely yours.

This, darling, is what sovereignty tastes like. This is what it means to be untethered. This is what it means to love from the cosmic womb. This is what it means to be home.

🌑 Sacred Inquiry: The Questions That Cut

Some questions don't just seek answers: they perform surgery on the soul.

These are the frequencies that arise when someone is ready to sever what no longer serves. Each one a blade wrapped in silk, each one a doorway disguised as devastation.

1. What invisible cord still feeds you poison disguised as love?

The tether you mistake for connection, the leash you call loyalty

2. Where in your body do you still breathe through her lungs?

That place where her anxiety becomes your baseline, her limitation your ceiling

3. What part of your mother's unlived life are you still trying to complete?

The dreams she abandoned that you carry like stones in your chest

4. How does your need for her approval keep you smaller than your soul's blueprint?

The ways you dim so she doesn't have to face her own unlit places

5. What would you choose if her comfort wasn't part of the equation?

The life waiting beyond the guilt of disappointing those who love your limitation

6. Where do you perform love instead of living it?

The ways you've learned to earn affection through self-abandonment

7. What inheritance are you carrying that isn't yours to continue?

Her fears, patterns, wounds masquerading as wisdom

8. How do you mistake being needed for being loved?

The addiction to rescuing that keeps you from receiving

9. What would sovereignty look like in your nervous system?

How your body would feel if it belonged completely to you

10. Who would you become if you loved from overflow instead of wound?

The version of you that exists beyond the mother-frequency

💫 Navigate Your Severance

These questions live in the liminal space between sacred and surgical.

If you feel the umbilical cord pulsing through your choices, your relationships, your capacity to receive without performing… If you're ready to love from wonder instead of wound… If you recognize yourself in the frequency of those who breathe through another's lungs… The cards know where the cuts need to happen.

For Tarot consultations that don't just divine your future, but midwife your sovereignty:

Connect with me: devidas.dea@gmail.com

Because some conversations change the fabric of your reality. And some questions, once asked, perform their own ritual of return.