A self you buried somewhere around twenty-five, and the one who surfaced ten years later and could not quite recall the buried one's name. You were born with Pluto in your twelfth house, the liminal house at the edge of sleep, the room behind the room, what the daylight forgets, so your deepest changes happen out of sight, even from you. The work runs underground: quiet symbolic deaths, hidden rebirths, long stretches of solitude that the people around you misread as simple absence. The risk is doing all of that descent alone, going down into the underworld over and over with no rope until one of the trips nearly does not let you back up. So find the guides who can sit at the edge of it: a therapist who is not afraid of depth, a quiet practice of writing that no one ever has to read. The power gathering in you here is real and hard-earned. It is also too heavy to carry without a witness, so let yourself reach for one.