I stayed up until 5 AM writing the first part of this article, the words still pulsing as I finally closed the laptop, convinced the night had taken enough from us — and then Eliott started shaking.
Initially, only a flicker in his breath and a tightening in his body—his eyes too wide for too long—then another explosion outside, a firework tearing open the darkness in someone’s private war against his own stupidity. Suddenly, he trembles against me, his body shaking, panting, pacing as if he’s waiting for me to bargain with the sky. The neighborhood has been relentless with fireworks, random detonations, and celebrations for reasons I don’t understand. For him, it’s a threat—sheer unpredictability overwhelming his nervous system.
I sit on the floor, counting his breaths as I press my hand to his ribs, whispering words I’m unsure he fully trusts. We’ve bought everything—oils, chews, pastel-colored calming remedies, the compression pajamas, and the seriously serious noise-canceling dog headphones. I’ve spent more this year on his mental health than on my own, yet the trembling continues.
He is shaking in my arms, and I am counting his breaths, watching his ribs rise and fall as if my attention alone could stabilize the world, and suddenly the scene folds in on itself and I am no longer in this apartment with noise-cancelling headphones and absurdly expensive calming oils; I am back in the Buddhist Monastery I wrote about last night. It’s the night there also, my stomach is growling so loudly I am convinced it will wake someone, I am cold, it seeps into the bone, the candle flame barely holding its shape, flickering against walls so thin I am afraid even my breathing is too loud, so I sit very still, guarding the silence, swallowing my tears with such force that I begin to choke on them, pulling the air in short, sharp gulps, terrified someone will hear the weakness in my lungs.
I am filled with doubt. I’m so overwhelmed by fear that it erodes me from within. I slip out of my room and walk toward the Buddha statue in the middle of the night, not even sure whether this is allowed, whether I am breaking some invisible rule, but the need to sit there overrides protocol. I don’t know how long I am there; time dissolves. The feelings come in waves — shame, panic, the certainty that I cannot do this, that I have overestimated myself, that this whole undertaking is impossible. I sit in a private storm of self-accusation: you are not enough, you failed, you romanticized this, you are a f@cking disappointment, you are a failure — I’m so consumed by the narrative that I do not notice when someone sits down beside me.
It is my teacher from that morning. They rotate often, so attachment does not root too deeply, and in the dark their shaved heads, slight frames, and loose robes make them nearly indistinguishable; it is his voice that gives him away. “Good night,” he says, almost coldly, which means one thing: you should not be here, you should return to your room. I ache for some human warmth, some small indulgence of reassurance, so in my clumsy Chinese I force out the sentence: I’m afraid. I don’t know if I can finish this.
His face does not even move. I immediately understand, there won’t be any comforting chitchat tonight, oh, no. No rescue. He looks at me for a second only, and something flashes in his eyes in the dark.
“You said you can,” he says. “You said you are capable.”
He is reminding me of my Buddhist refuge vow, of wǒ néng. At that moment, I declared that I was capable of taking refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, the Sangha. Instead of comfort, I feel myself shrink further, exposed, embarrassed by my own weakness. I want to vanish, I want my entire existence to dissolve into the darkness.
He stands to leave, from the doorway he looks back once more, just enough to signal that I cannot remain there, and he looks at the sky for a brief second. The sun is rising– he said, and then he was gone.
The sky outside really has begun to change; a faint pink line slices into the blackness. The sun is rising, showing me that a new day is about to begin, whether I am ready or not.
That was it. The sun rises, and you said you are capable. I went back to my room, pulled the blanket over myself, and fell asleep.
The next morning, after practice, I go to the teaching, but the monk from last night shows up at the last minute and leads me to another room. This is something strange and unusual. I wonder if I did something wrong; it even crossed my mind that they might just throw me out. However, he instead briefly introduces me to the master, and he politely compliments my Chinese name- I honestly don’t know why, but they say it sounds very beautiful in Chinese, 冰兰, Bīng Lán, meaning Ice Orchid. I’m confused.
You will learn the zodiac system now from the master, says the monk, and vanishes in a blink of an eye.
The Chinese zodiac, he explains, is a complex structure. Twelve earthly branches — Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, Pig — cycling through time, but beneath the animals, there are the Five Elements: Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water. Each year is an element expressed through that animal, and it’s a cycle, like everything. He speaks of interaction, generation, control, and clash. He tells me that Wood feeds Fire, Fire creates Earth, Earth bears Metal, Metal carries Water, Water nourishes Wood. And then the controlling cycle: Wood parts Earth, Earth dams Water, Water extinguishes Fire, Fire melts Metal, Metal cuts Wood.
I’m listening but not fully engaged. I didn’t come here for taxonomy; I didn’t move into a monastery for that. An irritated, sharp heat is building inside me. I seek insight and crave clarity, but all I see are symbols. It all feels like superficial spiritual decoration, and I have zero tolerance for that.
But I cannot be disrespectful, so I sit. I listen. I learn, and let him calculate my sign, I’m a Wood Ox.
His face changes slightly; there is something like confusion, or disapproval, I cannot tell. He speaks in phrases I only half grasp: strong earth, stubborn, burden-bearing, resistant to external pressure. Wood on top of Ox — he says, and he keeps asking: but where is your fire? Where is the fire?
I do not understand the problem, like, at all, and I feel this is a waste of time. I don’t understand, and that makes me even angrier. I understand he is excited, I understand, he is overwhelmed, which is rare for a master, he is repeating Fire Horse and freedom and speed, but I don’t get the rest. The more he repeats Fire Horse, the more I feel locked out of something everyone else seems to take seriously. The monk came for me, they talked briefly, and he wants me to skip dinner and go to my room to meditate. It’s the monk with the punchlines from last night. I deeply crave explanation, but I don’t dare to ask. He looks at me, and he said again with the same cruel simplicity, that Iwill lose everything, absolutely everything, and the Fire Horse will explain to me why, and give me justice, and the justice will give me power to do good in the world. When? I asked, confused, and he said, “Now you know how to count.” I do it, and it turns out, the fucking Fire Horse happens only once every sixty years. Once. A full elemental-animal return that almost no one lives to see twice. And suddenly I realize that the alignment he seems to be pointing toward is so far in the future that it might as well not exist for me at all. Don’t forget, I’m 20 years old at this point.
Wait for that year? For some distant cycle that may never arrive in any meaningful way? No. Absolutely not.
Out of respect, I learn the system, I memorize the stems and branches, the generating and controlling cycles, the clashes, and the combinations. I repeat the structure back to him precisely the next day, and he seems satisfied; I understand it intellectually, but inside, I’m more than sceptical, and I refuse to suspend my agency for a calendar. And I forgot about it, fully, completely the embarrassing spiritual bullshit, not once I let it come to my mind.
Now, 20 years later, we are in New York. I’m the same girl who I was that night at the monastery, alone, because I’ve lost everything, scared, more terrified, in the middle of exactly the same storm of self-accusation as 2 decades ago. You are not enough; you failed; you romanticized this; you are a f@cking disappointment; you are a failure. Same shit, the environment couldn’t be more different though.
In my moments of deepest despair and loneliness, I finally bought the plane ticket I had hesitated to purchase for weeks, to get away from here. I’m crying, but I answer the phone when I see my good friend’s call. “Happy New Year,” she said, and I’m like, what the f@ck are you talking about. I’m so focused that I turned off all the apps. I don’t read the news; they are taking me off my path, so I really feel clueless. Chinese New Year, it’s the Fire Horse — she said.
The Fire Horse. Suddenly it all came back, the memory I lived more than 20 years ago is with me, within my hands, the never arriving distant year, the once in 60 years horse with its flames, it’s here. My fire is here.
You will lose everything, absolutely everything, and the Fire Horse will explain to you why, and give you justice, and the justice will give you power to do good in the world.
I returned to my computer, looking at the newly purchased plane ticket with confusion, when I received a notification: the card was declined again—this was the second time this week—despite working perfectly everywhere else. I explained what happened to my friend, and she laughed. Of course it’s declined, because you don’t go anywhere, you little b@tch. I need you here. The world needs you here.
I wipe my tears—it’s the thousandth time in the past year—wondering how I can still cry when I hardly drink water, how my cells have the luxury to waste it like this. I smile through the tears and accept the flames. Let them consume what still needs to be released; perhaps this is the fire of purgatory. Here’s to everything Fire Horse represents: purpose, energy, recklessness, speed, freedom, elegance, wildness, stubborn hope, and power. I welcome the fire and these qualities into my life. I allow them to bring justice, and I grow from justice to do the things that I was born to do.
This morning, I worked for hours, and I did the calculation. As a Wood Ox in a Fire Horse year, here’s what I can expect:
This year, I juggle the delicate balance between seeking purpose and avoiding burnout. Fire energizes Earth, so momentum helps build structure, but it can also cause overheating if I push myself excessively. My primary challenge is overcommitting and attempting to overperform. I tend to take on too much because I can. The Fire Horse speeds up everything, and my stubborn Ox nature urges me to endure it all. This mix can either result in building great empires or wear down my nervous system- I’ll go with the first one.
January and February serve as a tough cleanse, burning away what doesn’t belong without sentimental ties—if it isn’t meant to stay, it leaves, or I push it away, because fire consumes what cannot endure.
March and April signal the end of a truth cycle; it’s a period of justice, accountability, and conversations that often reach a breaking point. During these months, things are settled and the fog lifts, regardless of whether everyone is prepared. I am eagerly awaiting this final act and am ready to dive in.
June seems to be for love; it involves a strong, immediate bond—either an existing connection intensifies quickly and firmly, or a new person arrives with undeniable intensity that leaves no room for hesitation, not casual or half-hearted; it’s a rapid, genuine fire.
Summer and fall are busy seasons. I need to be especially cautious then. The Horse keeps moving, and the Ox refuses to quit. I tend to push myself too hard, trying to prove my worth through fatigue. This year, I can’t make that mistake. Setting boundaries is crucial; balance isn’t just for appearances. This time, I really can’t burn out to sustain something.
For the first time, the pattern indicates there will be a true partner beside me — someone steady enough to say stop when needed, someone who doesn’t flinch at intensity. This year doesn’t show big escapes, no travel, no indulgent rest; everything is about building.
November signifies the visible return and acknowledgment. It is the month when the effort and energy invested come to fruition, and winter additionally offers the comforting promise of home.
My advice to myself for the year of Fire Horse:
Baby girl. Let the guiding principle this year be f@cking straightforward: avoid abandoning your goals for empty distractions. Don’t compromise your integrity for comfort. With attachment, wait until it’s real. Don’t mistake endurance for self-sacrifice.
Fire is here to test the structure, and this time, I don’t intend to burn out. This year, justice comes to serve my power, and I’m just dancing with it, like it’s a game, playing around, enjoying every minute. I deserve it.
So, Fire Horse it is. Let’s burn, bitches. We’re witches, after all, not afraid of the flames.
And if you want me to map out your personal Fire Horse year too, send me a DM on Substack and let’s do it seriously.
YOU SAID YOU ARE CAPABLE. AND THE SUN RISES.
I
