Welcome, Hello & Who I Am Beyond the Astrology

Void-of-course moon days are funny little pockets of time…

Traditionally, they’re considered spaces where nothing much “comes of” what’s initiated there: plans drift sideways, announcements much like this lose traction. Timing behaves like it wandered off barefoot into the woods carrying a juice box and a philosophical crisis.

Which honestly makes them perfect for reflection instead of propulsion.

And since a few of you have found your way here recently, this feels like an oddly appropriate moment to introduce myself—not through charts or forecasts or planetary weather reports, but as the strange redheaded woman behind them.

Most people know me through delineations.

Through eclipses, Saturn returns, Moon Moods, symbolism, and the strange invisible architecture I spend my life translating into language people can actually feel inside themselves.

But beyond the astrology, I’m also someone who wears heels to grocery stores for absolutely no practical reason, talks to plants like coworkers, and will drive an unreasonable distance because some chef somewhere decided butter deserved transcendence.

I love books with the intensity of a religious calling. I read constantly—not to appear intellectual, but because learning makes me feel electrically alive. I become obsessed with origin stories. Of words. Rituals. Cities. Myths. Customs. Human behavior. I never just want to know what something is. I want to know what it looked like before civilization cleaned it up and taught it table manners.

At this point I own over fifty plants—possibly fifty-three, though somewhere between “healthy hobby” and “eccentric greenhouse widow” I stopped counting. My Venus in Taurus insists upon beauty: candlelight, layered blankets, strange objects, old books, low lighting, soft textures, good smells, and environments so comforting people accidentally tell the truth in them.

I have a cat named Una Doon, who cannot accurately be described using ordinary feline terminology. She’s more like a tiny cougar crossed with an emotionally complicated mongoose.

Travel has always felt sacred to me. I love airplanes, road trips, hotel rooms, dramatic music through headphones while staring out windows pretending I’m either fleeing an empire or starring in a European art film. Music does something to me that still feels slightly supernatural. Sometimes it feels less like listening and more like temporarily exiting my body.

And yes—I fly first class whenever possible. Or private when traveling with one of the best decisions I ever made.

Not because I think I’m royalty. My nervous system simply isn’t designed for fluorescent chaos compressed into a flying metal tube beside a man eating warm tuna from a sandwich bag while a toddler experiments with acoustics.

I like softness.
Space.
Quiet.
Intentionality.

If I’m going to hurtle through the atmosphere on blind trust and mathematics, I’d at least prefer a warm towel and decent bourbon in a real glass while doing it.

I’m also deeply obsessed with ASMR. Tiny sounds. Rainfall. Pages turning. Someone whispering while organizing beads into jars for no apparent reason. It calms the static in my nervous system in ways modern psychology has yet to fully explain.

I love real conversation—the kind where you can physically feel two nervous systems meeting somewhere in the middle. I love timing. Humor. Energy. I love that electric sensation that arrives when something meaningful is moving through me so strongly it almost feels weather-related.

Food-wise, I’m unapologetically bougie. I will absolutely travel for a reservation, a tasting menu, a visionary cocktail, edible beauty, atmospheric lighting, or a chef having what appears to be a controlled spiritual experience with sea salt.

I’ve always loved my red hair. Somehow I escaped childhood teasing for it entirely, which feels statistically suspicious. It became such a deep part of my identity that I already know watching it eventually turn white will feel strangely emotional—like saying goodbye to a longtime version of myself.

And if I’m being entirely honest, I’ve always related a little too closely to Persephone.

Not the sanitized “goddess of spring” version people reduce her to on Pinterest boards, but the woman who accidentally became fluent in both worlds—the bright one and the underworld beneath it.

When I was younger, I became trapped in relationships that were profoundly unhealthy in ways I didn’t yet have language for. Relationships that altered my nervous system. Relationships that taught me how easily people can confuse possession with love, intensity with intimacy, survival with devotion.

And somewhere inside all of that, I became extraordinarily familiar with emotional underworlds.

Loss.
Control.
Transformation.
Power.
Rebirth.

The strange loneliness of becoming someone new while everyone around you still speaks to the version of you that no longer exists.

Truthfully? I probably resonate with the underworld a smidge more naturally than consensus reality. I’ve always felt more comfortable exploring shadow, symbolism, paradox, grief, desire, psychology, longing, the hidden motives underneath human behavior, and the invisible mechanics operating beneath surface appearances.

Which is partially why astrology fit me so naturally.

It gave structure to what I was already sensing.

But it also taught me something far more important: your chart is not a prison sentence—it’s a map of needs, tensions, gifts, thresholds, instincts, hungers, and timing…

And once I truly began understanding my own nativity—my actual nervous system, my actual rhythms, my actual energetic requirements—I stopped trying to force myself into realities that were fundamentally incompatible with my spirit.

I started building and attracting a life that matched me instead…

Not fantasy.
Not delusion.
Not bypassing.

Alignment.

And slowly, strangely, almost magically, reality began responding…

Professionally, I actually began as a dental technician at twenty-two, building teeth by hand—tiny architecture projects for human confidence. But the first lab I worked in back in Iowa was deeply toxic in nearly every way imaginable: energetically, emotionally, financially. People were underpaid for incredibly technical artistic work, and something inside me refused to believe that was the final answer to my life.

So naturally, I did what any slightly feral astrologer obsessed with maps would do: I researched my astrocartography.

Everything pointed west.

So I moved to Oregon and immediately began earning more than eighty percent above what I’d made in Iowa—but honestly, the greatest shift wasn’t financial. It was environmental. I learned that sometimes manifestation isn’t becoming someone new. Sometimes it’s simply removing yourself from the geography that was slowly suffocating you.

Before Oregon, though, there was Colorado—and Colorado changed me permanently.

I lived there for three years, earned my sociology degree cum laude, climbed two fourteeners, drove questionable vehicles into the mountains alone with absolutely no cell service, wandered deserts beneath impossible skies, and learned what it felt like when life begins responding directly to your energy.

That place woke something up in me…

I’d hike beneath stars so overwhelming they made cynicism feel psychologically impossible. Synchronicities stacked themselves so rapidly they stopped feeling random altogether. Reality felt conversational there, almost responsive. Colorado was where I stopped merely surviving and started trusting “the out there….” and it was also where my gifts stopped whispering and started introducing themselves properly.

Astrology itself arrived much earlier. I was fourteen when it first got its claws into me. By my twenties I was guessing strangers’ signs for entertainment at parties with alarming accuracy. By thirty-five I began writing daily Moon Moods. By thirty-eight I was delineating commissioned readings professionally, though honestly it never felt like choosing a career so much as finally surrendering to a lifelong haunting.

I’ve also had experiences I still struggle to explain cleanly…

I grew up in a house with a ghost—or at least that’s how my family framed it. One day as a child I saw a woman standing in the upstairs window watching me swing outside. Flummoxed without words, I ran inside and told my parents, who calmly explained that her name was Mrs. Adams, the house had once belonged to her, and she loved it so much she simply never left.

“She protects us,” they told me.
“You just can’t hug her.”

And somehow that explanation made perfect sense to me as a child.

I’m fairly certain I narrowly escaped being trafficked in Puerto Vallarta at twenty-seven after one of the strongest instinctive reactions I’ve ever experienced in real time. I’ve also written successful grants, one of which brought in several million dollars, and another that somehow sent us to New York City fully funded with spending money on top of it, which still feels slightly unreal and absolutely audacious.

I never wanted children—not even as a little girl. I preferred Barbies over baby dolls and later began having recurring dreams where I’d hand babies to someone else and quietly disappear forever. I took that symbolism seriously. Some people are meant for motherhood. I was meant for something entirely different…

I’ve always wanted to publish books… and I will—this will be my ‘child’…

I’ve always wanted to see the aurora borealis from one of those absurd glass igloos while wrapped in fur blankets drinking expensive martinis beneath a sky behaving like witchcraft…. and I will.

I always wanted a robin’s-egg blue box from Tiffany & Co.
Eventually, life handed me a few… manifestation is powerfully when done proficiently.

And because no self-portrait is honest without contradiction:

I hate peas from a can.
I hate cruelty disguised as intelligence.

I hate price-tag stickers fused directly onto decorative objects like hostile little adhesive curses… at that point I no longer feel like a consumer—I feel like I’m diffusing a bomb.

I don’t do zucchini.
I don’t do cardio.

I don’t do chaos, screaming babies, aggressive noise, hyperactive anything or crowds dense enough to make me feel spiritually fingerprinted by strangers.

But I do believe in magic.

Not childish magic.
Real magic.

The kind hidden inside timing.
Intuition.
Beauty.
Pattern recognition.
Music.
Symbols.
Coincidences.
Energy.
Human connection.

The invisible threads that pull people toward one another at exactly the right moment.

And maybe that’s what all of this work has always been for me anyway…

Not prediction. Recognition.

Of myself…
Of you and yours.
Your patterns.
Your seasons.
The hidden architecture quietly shaping your life beneath the surface while you’re busy trying to survive it.

So for those of you who are new here:

Hello. I’m Jamie. You can call me James.

I’m a redheaded astrologer with too many plants, suspicious intuition, expensive taste, ghost stories, a cat named Una Doon, and a lifelong fascination with the invisible mechanics of being human.

I’m happy you’re here and I’m thrilled my insights resonate with you. Like, love, comment, share and tell those you love!