The Moon Wouldn’t Hold Still

Last night was my final shift at what I lovingly nicknamed The Big Top

To everyone else, it was just another shift.
Another night under fluorescent lights. Another med pass. Another call bell. Another round of gossip, dysfunction, exhaustion, and survival behaviors disguised as normalcy.

But to me?

It was a threshold.

The strange thing about thresholds is that they rarely look magical while you’re standing in them. There’s no dramatic soundtrack. No cinematic slow motion. Sometimes your soul is crossing into an entirely new chapter while someone nearby is arguing about assignments and someone else is asking where the linens went.

The sacred often arrives wearing ordinary clothes.

For months my nervous system has been trying to explain something to me that my mind kept wanting to negotiate with. My body knew before my logic did. Every shift required recovery. Every interaction felt like navigating emotional static. I watched healthy people begin to question themselves inside an unhealthy environment. I watched dysfunction become normalized simply because it was repeated long enough.

And like many trauma survivors, I asked myself the question over and over:

Am I the problem?

Healing is strange because one of the hardest parts is learning not to abandon yourself when surrounded by environments that have already abandoned themselves.

Last night, I walked out for the final time.

No dramatic speech. No confetti cannons. No marching band announcing liberation from the circus tent.

Just me walking to my car under the night sky carrying the quiet understanding that something inside me had finally said:

Enough.

On the drive home, I got stopped at a construction zone.

Red light. Workers in reflective gear. Roads torn apart under floodlights. Traffic paused while the path ahead was being rebuilt.

I laughed out loud because the symbolism was almost offensive in its accuracy.

There I was. Freshly released from a chapter of survival mode. Sitting completely still at 0 MPH while the road ahead was literally under construction.

That moment felt like life speaking directly to me.

Not blocked.
Not trapped.
Not lost.

Just… rerouting.

Then I tried to photograph the moon.

Instead of a crisp image, my phone captured streaks of electric blue, violet, magenta, and gold. The moon dissolved into movement and light trails. At first I thought it was strange. But the more I looked at it, the more it felt honest.

Because that’s exactly what transition feels like.

Blurry. Liminal. Half formed.

You are no longer fully the old version of yourself, but the new version has not completely landed yet either.

The moon wouldn’t hold still because I wouldn’t hold still. My life is moving. My identity is shifting. My nervous system is recalibrating after spending too long bracing for impact.

And then something beautiful happened.

I slept.

Not collapse sleep. Not shutdown sleep. Not “I survived another shift” sleep.

Real sleep.

Five full hours after I thought I was already awake for the day. My body finally exhaled.

This next chapter is not about becoming someone new. I think it’s actually about becoming someone truer. More grounded. More integrated. More willing to protect peace instead of proving worth through endurance.

The road ahead may still be under construction.

But at least now I’m finally driving away from the circus. ✨

— Jill
Rooted in Salem, guided by spirit, walking the veil so you don’t have to.