Astrologically known as the sign of the mother and emotions, it always stirred something deep and uncomfortable within me. I have wounds tied to this energy—old stories rooted in not being taught how to love or embrace my emotions, just as I wasn’t loved or embraced in that way by my own mother. Cancer season brings all of that to the surface.

This archetype is about nurturing. It invites stillness, softness, and sensitivity. But for someone who’s learned to armor up in order to feel safe, that invitation can feel more like an intrusion.

Each year, as the energy of summer begins to slow down, I feel it. The sun still shines bright, but the heat grows heavy. The afternoons stretch lazily, making it harder to stay in motion. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe Cancer season teaches us to surrender to the pace of nature—to stop, to feel, to rest.

In my mind’s eye, I see her: a beached mermaid, a fish out of water, no longer in her element. The sand beneath her is too hot, the sun above too harsh. She doesn’t belong here. She’s longing to slip back into the watery depths where she feels held, not exposed.

But when the sun sets and the moon rises—soft, silver, and watchful—she finally returns to the surface. She swims quietly under the moonlight. This is where she feels safe to feel. Where no one else can see. Where she doesn’t need to perform. Only be.

Cancer season is not about productivity or brightness. It’s about the quiet return to self. About nurturing the wounds we carry, even the ones we’d rather not face. And maybe, just maybe, it’s a reminder that softness is not weakness. That emotion is not the enemy. And that healing happens not under harsh sunlight, but under the gentle gaze of the moon.