Why forward feels like the wrong direction
“Since my mom died, I can’t seem to move forward. Why can’t I?” You asked it the way someone asks why a car won’t start, as if a part inside you had stopped working. But there’s one small word in your question that may matter more than the rest. Forward.
Forward means away. Every step on puts a little more time between you and the last time you heard her voice, the last time she said your name the way only she said it. Some part of you may not want that distance yet. Here, where you are, she still feels close.
You were born with the Moon in Virgo. When something hurts, you take care of something. After she died there were so many things to handle, the calls, the papers, the decisions about what to keep, and you likely handled them carefully, one by one. Doing it right was a way of loving her. Now most of the tasks are done, and what’s left can’t be put in order.
The Sun was in Sagittarius the day you were born, so you’ve always been someone who looks ahead, who sees the next road and takes it. Maybe that’s why this feels so foreign. And then the thought comes: “I should be further along by now. What’s wrong with me?” It’s holding a ruler up to something that was never meant to be measured.
Grief isn’t a task you’ve fallen behind on. It’s how much she mattered, still here, still yours. What you call not moving forward may simply be the part of you that’s keeping her company.
If you want, some quiet evening, close your eyes and let your hands rest palms down. Let your body be open, and feel your chest from the inside, only with attention. There may be an ache there, or a weight, or something very tender. You don’t need to move it anywhere. If you want to stop, you stop.
Nothing has to go anywhere today. Missing her is not something you’re doing wrong.