Someone says lean on me and your body does the opposite, a small bracing in the shoulders, a polite half-step back. You were born with Chiron in Cancer, and the centaur of the myth was the teacher whose wound stayed open and who taught from it anyway. Yours lives in the home, in the early feeling of being held. Somewhere shelter came unevenly: a parent whose weather kept shifting, a comfort that arrived with a cost attached, a belonging that did not feel safe to trust all the way. So you tend everyone else and skip yourself, you keep one foot near the door even in rooms that love you, you ache a little around kitchens and small acts of care. The Moon runs soft and tidal through this ground. The snag is mistaking that old caution for wisdom, guarding against shelter you are actually allowed to have. The wound holds its lesson: you know precisely how it feels to come in from the cold and find no fire, which makes you the one who can build the fire for someone else. You get to set your full weight down on the people who offer it. Come in. Rest. No explanation owed.
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