Two Pavlovas Down and Gemini Moon on the Rise
I spent Saturday making pavlova for Father’s Day. Two beautiful meringues—crisp on the outside, marshmallowy in the center, delicate and light. I had poured so much care into them. Measuring. Whipping. Folding. Watching the oven like a hawk. I was proud of them. I was excited to share them. I turned off the ovens and I left them in the oven overnight to let them cool down slowly. I was excited to see how they turned out and it took everything in me to keep from opening the oven door for a peak. I didn’t want to risk ruining them with my eagerness.
And then Sunday came.
We were heading to my in-laws. They live close—just ten minutes away—but even a short drive can feel like forever when the kids are bickering before we’ve even left the driveway. I was in the house using the bathroom. My husband had already loaded the pavlovas into the back of the van.
I get in the car. One minute in. Tension rises in the back seat. My husband, clearly already maxed out, mutters something and flips a U-turn. “We’re going home.”
That’s when I heard it. A sound from the back. Sliding.
My heart clenched.
He pulls up in front of the house again. I jump out and open the trunk. And there it is—one of the pavlovas, face down on the ground. Cracked, crushed, the fragile top smashed into the plastic wrap. The other one didn’t fall, but it might as well have. It was no longer beautiful—shattered in places, soft middle sinking where it had been jolted too hard.
I stood there staring at it, stunned. And then the feelings came rushing in—hot and tight.
All that work. Gone in a moment. All that intention—flattened. Not by malice. Not by carelessness. Just… by life.
I was mad. I was sad. I wanted to scream and also say nothing.
And almost instantly, the inner dialogue started—like twin voices echoing in my head. One voice said, “This matters. You worked so hard. You have every right to feel this.” The other whispered, “It’s just dessert. It’s not worth being upset. It’s okay. Let it go.”
And suddenly I realized: my Gemini Moon was speaking. Both of them. At once.
This has been happening to me my entire life, but I had never consciously noticed the duality. Trying to both validate and invalidate my emotions and experience at the same time.
That duality inside me—always thinking, always observing—was trying to process the grief and the perspective at the same time. Trying to be human and wise, emotional and detached. It was exhausting. And beautiful. And real.
I let the tears come. Quiet and soft. Not for anyone else, just for me. To feel and release all that I was going through. It was ok to grieve the loss of the perfect presentation of the delicate dessert. After all, I knew it could still taste fine, in the end.
The car ride was strangely still after that.
And I just sat there. Letting myself grieve. Letting myself not minimize it. Letting myself not perform peace before I was ready.
The Transits Finally Got Me
This weekend, Mars and Uranus were squaring each other. I had heard people talk about disruptions, unexpected flare-ups, emotions boiling over. And until that moment, I thought I had escaped it.
But no—this was it. My moment of combustion. My unexpected grief. My cracked pavlova.
It wasn’t just about dessert. It was about effort. About feeling invisible. About needing space to be tender.
And maybe also, about surrender.
Because even cracked pavlova still tastes sweet. And even a shattered moment can carry a kind of truth—one that shows you who you are when things don’t go according to plan.
I am someone who feels deeply. Who sees both sides. Who is learning to hold both without letting either one silence the other.
I’m someone who still brought the broken pavlovas to the party. And they were devoured—every last bite.
Messy. Imperfect. Loved. Just like me.
Have you ever had a moment where something small—a meal, a plan, a day—fell apart, and it cracked open something deeper inside you? What did it reveal? What part of you showed up in the chaos? Was there a softness waiting underneath the frustration? Sometimes, it’s not about “getting over it.” Sometimes, it’s about feeling through it. If you’re walking through one of those cracked pavlova moments right now, I see you. May you find grace in the mess. May you let yourself feel both voices. May you taste the sweetness still inside what broke.
Luckily, we were still able to enjoy the pavlova. It wasn’t as pretty as I had planned. But that’s the way life is. We make pretty plans, life gets in the way, sometimes making a mess. But it all works out in the end. The pavlova still tasted great 😊