Messiness and Virgo Moons
The Gift of Discernment
When I first started dabbling in astrology, one of the things that fascinated me most about my chart was the contradiction of being a Pisces Sun with a Virgo Moon. It felt like proof of something I had always felt but never had the words for—the tension between my desire to surrender and my need to make sense of things first.
Pisces longs to dissolve, to merge, to trust the unseen. But my Virgo Moon? It wants clarity. It wants to take things apart and understand them before I allow myself to sink in. It wants to make sure something is right before it’s released into the world. It wants emotions to be fully processed before they’re expressed. It wants decisions to be weighed before they’re made.
And part of me made that wrong.
In a wellness culture that promotes spontaneity, intuition, and messy, unfiltered self-expression as the gold standard of authenticity, my way of moving through the world felt somehow less valuable. Shouldn’t I be more open? More trusting? More instinctive? Shouldn’t I be willing to just leap instead of calculating every possible outcome before I move?
Recently, I’ve come to the realization that my Virgo Moon isn’t just about order or logic—it’s about devotion. Not just tidiness, but sacred refinement. Not just analysis, but care. And yet, living in a world that glorifies messiness as the ultimate rebellion, I’ve often felt caught between the need to honor my natural way of being and the pressure to be more free-flowing, less precise, less careful. As if my Virgo Moon’s desire for refinement was something to be unlearned rather than understood.
To understand Virgo, we have to go back—not to the sterilized, over-simplified version of astrology that equates Virgo with perfectionism, but to the origins of the Virgin archetype.
Virgo is named for the Virgo Parthenos, the ancient Maiden, the keeper of the harvest, the sacred priestess. Her symbol has been traced back to goddesses like Isis, Demeter, and Astraea—the untouched, the pure, the one who stands between divinity and earth, translating the wisdom of the unseen into form.
And then there’s Mary.
The Virgin Mary, as commonly depicted, is a lie.
Or, more accurately, a distortion.
In early Christianity, Mary was rewritten—sanitized, deified, and used as a tool to shape the ideal woman: silent, obedient, untouched. Her virginity was transformed into something literal—and worse, something aspirational. She was no longer the autonomous, sovereign priestess of her own body and spirit, but a model of female subservience.
But virgin never originally meant untouched.
In ancient terms, a virgin was a woman unto herself. A woman who belonged to no man. A woman who was whole on her own. The vestal virgins of Rome were not celibate for purity’s sake, but because their devotion to something greater than themselves required that they be untethered to the expectations of men.
Mary was never meant to be a passive vessel or a symbol of submission.
She was meant to be a portal between worlds, a translator of divinity into form.
This is what Virgo actually is.
Virgo is not about perfection. It is about discernment. About knowing what is sacred and what is… not. It is the priestess tending the sacred fire, the healer mixing herbs in exact proportions, the artisan shaping raw material into something refined—not because rawness is bad, but because refinement is its own form of devotion.
This is how I’ve come to I understand my Virgo Moon.
As a Virgo Moon, I rarely experience my emotions in their rawest form. Instead, I process them. I take in everything—every feeling, every experience, every undercurrent of emotion in a room—and sort through it, piece by piece.
I don’t just feel something and let it move through me. I work with it. I analyze it. I categorize it.
I ask: What is this feeling? Where does it belong? What needs to be healed here? What can I turn this into?
Some might see this as overthinking, but that’s not quite right. I’m not overthinking my emotions—I’m getting around them, I’m translating them.
And while I’ve incorporated somatic practices to support my journey into the body more, the truth is—my Virgo Moon is meant to work this way. It’s not something to override, but something to understand.
This is why people come to me for clarity. I have the ability to take something chaotic, something overwhelming, and distill it down to its essence.
To see the difference between what is real and what is just noise.
And this is why, at its best, my Virgo Moon is not about control—it is about trust. Trust in what is true. Trust in what actually matters. Trust that sometimes, the right thing is to let something be unfinished—not because it isn’t worth refining, but because it was never meant to be shaped in the first place.
My Virgo Moon does not force change.
It does not tell me to be messy just for the sake of it.
It tells me: This is already whole. This does not need fixing.
And then it helps me discern what does need refinement, what does need shaping—not to make it more perfect, but to make it more true.
This is what makes me powerful in my work.
Discernment is a gift.
I don’t push people to burn everything down in the name of reinvention. I don’t tell them to just take messy action without first understanding why they’re moving in the first place.
Instead, I ask: What is actually calling for change, and what have you just been told needs fixing?
I ask: Is this really something to let go of, or are you just afraid to own how much it matters to you?
Some things are meant to be shaped.
Some things are meant to be left as they are.
The wisdom my Virgo Moon offers me is knowing the difference.
This is why I started baking. Why I started pottery.
Not because I wanted to master them—I knew that wasn’t in the cards for me.
But because I wanted to be bad at something.
I wanted to sit in the discomfort of imperfection, of failure, even.
Because perfection is a defense mechanism. If I can make something flawless, I can make it safe. If I can make something right, I can avoid vulnerability.
But in baking, for me at least, there is no control. I can measure every ingredient perfectly, but I cannot force the dough to rise. I cannot will the oven to brown the edges just so. The process unfolds in its own way, in its own time.
And in pottery, no matter how carefully I handle the clay, I’ll likely make it too thin and break it, or too thick and have it get destroyed in the kiln. If it emerges at all, it emerges as something new—and I have to meet it as it is, not as I wanted it to be.
This is the real work for me. Not forcing messiness, but learning to be in process.
To let things unfold before I try to correct them.
To let the unfinished be unfinished.
To let things take shape on their own, without trying to control what they will become.
My Virgo Moon is a healer. A translator of emotions into meaning. A master of integration. It has the ability to take what is raw and shape it into something useful, something sacred.
I don’t just see the details—I see what’s underneath them.
And so, the lesson is not to abandon refinement.
The lesson is to trust what truly needs refining and what is already whole.
Because there will always be things worth shaping.
But there will also always be things that were never meant to be changed.
And the wisdom is in knowing the difference.
Love this! Made me think about my own Virgo placement as my rising sign and wow