You open before you check what is coming through the door, and you feel a slow tiredness near the rooms that take more than they give back. You were born with Chiron in Pisces, and the centaur of the myth was the teacher whose wound stayed open and who taught from it rather than around it. Yours lives in compassion itself, in whether your porousness was ever met or only used. Somewhere early your softness landed in a hard room: a place that drained more than it returned, a bond that called your empathy convenient, a sensitivity the adults filed under weakness. So you absorb everyone, you blur your own edges, you mistake having no boundary for being kind. Jupiter and Neptune run through this ground, wide and oceanic. The snag is reading the tiredness as the cost of caring, when it is really the leak you never learned to close. The wound carries its lesson: you know precisely how it feels to feel everything and dissolve, which makes you the one who can teach another person to stay soft without being robbed. You get to keep some of the tenderness for yourself. Be permeable on purpose, not by default. Compassion was never meant to cost you your own outline.