You feel the heat rise in you to be seen, fully and gladly, and then a quieter voice trims the wick before the room can look. You were born with Chiron in Leo, and the centaur in the myth taught from a wound that never closed, not despite it. Yours sits at the question of being seen, the simple right to your own warmth out in the open. Somewhere early your shine met a flat audience: a parent who looked through you, a classmate who laughed in the wrong key, praise that arrived for the wrong thing entirely. So you dim preemptively, you deflect the compliment, you perform a smaller version and hope it is safer. The Sun runs steady and bright through this ground. The trap is reading that early flatness as proof your light is too much. It never was. The wound teaches its own thing: you know exactly how it feels to glow into a room that will not meet it, which makes you the one who can teach another person to keep their flame lit anyway. You get to walk in radiant even when nobody clapped last time. Tend the light on the days no one is looking. Then it is honest when it shows.