Things that are impossible to dose right

• Sugar

• Alcohol

• Love

• Expectations

• Rice

I read tarot narratively, usually laying multiple cards that speak to one another across different positions, and then using my therapeutic training, understanding of human behaviour, and my awareness of attachment patterns to make sense of a spread. Lately, though, I’ve been focusing on a single card at a time to deepen my connection with my deck.

But I also believe that whatever shows up in a reading is there for a reason. My intention with this question was to answer it with a single card, but tarot handed me four, tumbling out in a particular sequence that stitched itself into a very specific narrative I couldn’t ignore.

So, let’s dive in.

The Two of Swords in reverse landed on top of the three other cards that came out with it, almost like it was trying to tell me that ‘this is the overall tension for the week, but it’s not the ending’. The tension here is dissonance. Upright, this card carries the energy of guarding, of needing to block out external noise to make a decision, or a warning to stop avoiding a truth. But in reverse, and in this context, the card speaks to misrepresentation, the blindfold slipping off to reveal potentially painful truths.

Putting that energy together with The Sun (upright), The Hierophant (upright), and the Eight of Wands (upright), the story goes: there’s conflict, but I keep expanding despite it. The Sun knows where it’s going, the joyful child and the horse leading the way, and The Hierophant knows why. My beliefs and values stay steady, even when others misread me. And the Eight of Wands confirms that this tension doesn’t end in resolution, but in movement: things speeding up and carrying me forward.

If this resonates with you, too, consider it a small reminder that your values are leading the way, even in the dissonance.

Before I started reading my own tarot cards, reversals used to scare me; they felt wrong somehow, like a sign that my life was off-balance or that something needed urgent fixing.

But tarot doesn’t really work like that, or at least not for me. Reversals have become invitations to grow, to turn inward, and to gently reassess what’s supporting me and what no longer is.

Upright, the King of Cups sits steady atop turbulent waters. The emotional storms around him don’t rule him, and he doesn’t let them pull him under. His facial expression is authoritative, yet calm and gentle. It’s a very compassionate energy.

Reversed, and in this specific context, the card speaks to learning where my emotional responsibility ends. How not to soak up everything or try to captain everyone else’s choppy seas.

For me, this card feels like I’m standing strong, but I’m not quite all the way there yet. I’m in motion, somewhere between who I was and who I’m becoming.

Court cards fascinate me because they speak to identity. The roles we grow into. Here, there’s an opportunity for me to learn a new way of inhabiting emotional space, a slow shift from reflexive emotional availability to emotional availability offered on purpose, by choice. I’m ready for it.

The dramatic scenery of Wales,

and the worn-out corners of my heart.

The telephone lines are silent,

the internet flickers in and out.

All that remains is drifting between the pull of your grey-blue eyes and losing myself in the quiet, patient vastness of the Rhinog mountains.

The Ten of Pentacles in reverse has been insisting on itself in my readings lately. It fits the situation I’m in, having taken a step away from family to heal childhood patterns.

I always notice the figure outside the wall first. I never look at the family. This isn’t an inherently bad card, though; the colours are warm, and, in my hands, the card's energy is soft, which surprises me because I expected separation to feel colder than this.

Part of me would argue I’m already aware of this tension. Maybe I’ve left physically, but I still organise myself around the wall internally?

The plane jerks into motion. The pungent smell of fuel and hot tarmac fills the cabin. Now and then, a sneeze, a sigh, or a yawn interrupts the silence, but other than that, the 167 passengers are entirely still. It is as though they are flying the plane themselves, collectively concentrating on every move the aircraft makes, gathering the strength to lift it into the air. Then, with a last push of the wheels, the plane moves diagonally through space.

I sit staring out the aeroplane window at the spring evening engulfing us—Copenhagen beneath us, a hollow void ahead. My eyes are fixated on the condensed window, watching drops make intricate patterns distorting the city lights.

‘I dreamt about you last night.’

‘Excuse me?’ I turn my head towards the sound. A woman is sitting next to me with her legs tucked against her chest. She has buried her face in her knees like a child.

‘Yeah, I dreamt that I sat next to you when we crashed.’

She is tense, moving her toes up and down for something to do.

‘Is that so?’ I say and turn my head towards the window again.

The plane suddenly drops. My stomach responds immediately by disintegrating. The yellows, the greens, and the browns are moving closer rapidly. The woman next to me lets out a silent scream.

There is a loud roar, and the plane evens itself out again.

‘See?’ her fingers release my throbbing arm.

I try not to look at her.

‘Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen.’

The seat belt sign turns off, and the next thing I know, the woman unclips hers. She unfolds herself and stands up to the sound of the air hostesses’ drinks carts.

‘I need a fucking drink.’

I woke up to my alarm, dreaming I had already woken up to my alarm.

I’m travelling this week, uprooting myself willingly once again. It’s getting harder and harder to come back to Copenhagen: to a place that isn’t mine, yet holds my 150-year-old family rug, my second-hand cutlery, my dying plants,

your absence.

This exercise is challenging for me because I rarely write anything before it has fully landed in my body. But sometimes it is good to challenge yourself.

I associate the Five of Pentacles in reverse with recovery from the cold. It’s May, and I haven’t spoken much to my family since December. I’ve dragged myself through the months, my head submerged beneath something thick and invisible, surfacing only occasionally for air.

But lately, something has become lighter. Small flashes of energy come from nowhere, like a rope around my waist tugging me toward shore. ‘This way, my love, this is where we’re heading’.

Upright, the card oozes exclusion: two figures wandering through the cold beneath five glowing pentacles fixed to a building that resembles a church, an institution built around belonging.

Reversed, the card is immediately warmer in my hand, like I’m no longer entirely defined by exile.

Maybe my safety exists outside inherited systems.

I’m terrified I might wake up one day and realise she spent her whole life trying to explain something nobody wanted to hear. That I inherited other people’s versions of her, that I confused survival with truth.

How can we ever separate memory from the narratives we survive through?

It’s strange being back in Copenhagen again. Everything feels in limbo: references, visas, flats, time itself.

It won’t always be like this.

The magnolia-coloured walls remind me of London, 2014. I can see myself again at 26, lost and traumatised, trying to forget about Australia.

The constant sound of cars and buses here is deafening.

It presses in.

I woke up at 6.54 AM the day of my mother’s 77th birthday. She’s a late sleeper; I bet she’s not up yet.

I picture her still in bed, the curtains drawn. I push the image down, further and deeper. Somewhere low in my body, where other things have already gathered.

I carry it with me when I move through the day.

I feel its shape, the edges pressing against my insides.

Does she even eat breakfast?