From “But” to “And”: The Turning Point Within

What if eclipse season is not only about what is being eclipsed, but about what we are finally ready to see?

There is something deeply symbolic about an eclipse.

For a brief moment, something familiar is covered. The light changes. What we usually see so clearly becomes shadowed, asking us to pause, look inward and perhaps see things differently.

Astronomically, an eclipse season is a period when the Sun, Moon and Earth are aligned in a way that allows eclipses to occur. Each season lasts roughly 35 days. In August 2026, we have a total solar eclipse on August 12, followed by a partial lunar eclipse on August 27–28.

But perhaps we can also use this season as a beautiful metaphor for our own lives.

Because sometimes, a turning point isn’t about changing what happened.

It is about changing the story we continue to tell ourselves about what happened.

From “No” to “Yes”

There are moments in life when we realise that the answer we have been living with no longer fits who we are becoming.

We move from:

“No, I can’t.”
to
“Yes, perhaps I can.”

From:

“This will never change.”
to
“I can change what I do with it.”

And sometimes the turning point goes in the opposite direction.

We move from “yes” to “no.”

No to what drains us.
No to relationships that repeatedly diminish us.
No to abandoning ourselves to keep someone else comfortable.

Sometimes healing is learning to say yes.

Sometimes healing is finally learning to say no.

And then there is the little word that can change everything: “And.”

One of the most powerful shifts we can make is moving from “but” to “and.”

“I was hurt, but I survived.”

can become:

“I was hurt, and I survived.”

“I didn’t get the childhood I needed, but I became strong.”

can become:

“I didn’t get the childhood I needed, and I learned to create safety for myself.”

“My relationship ended, but I found myself.”

can become:

“My relationship ended, and I found parts of myself I had forgotten.”

The word “but” often makes one experience cancel another.

The word “and” allows two truths to exist together.

I can grieve what I lost and be grateful for what I learned.

I can acknowledge that something was painful and recognise that I grew through it.

I can love someone and choose distance.

I can miss what I once had and still choose what comes next.

Acceptance does not require us to rewrite history.

It asks us to stop allowing history to write our future.

From “Too Much” to “Just Enough”

Perhaps another turning point is the way we measure ourselves.

For years, many of us have lived with the belief that we are not enough.

Not successful enough.
Not attractive enough.
Not loved enough.
Not accomplished enough.
Not understood enough.

And sometimes we move in the opposite direction, believing we have to become too much to finally be worthy.

Too successful.
Too giving.
Too available.
Too strong.
Too accommodating.

But healing can quietly bring us somewhere else:

Just enough.

Enough without proving.

Enough without performing.

Enough without constantly asking someone else to validate our existence.

Just enough to breathe.

Just enough to be.

Just enough to choose ourselves.

Acceptance is not surrender

One of life’s hardest lessons is accepting the things we did not choose.

The family we were born into.

The circumstances of our childhood.

The things our parents could or could not give us.

The relationships that changed us.

The opportunities we missed.

The losses we never wanted.

Acceptance can feel frightening because we sometimes confuse it with approval.

But acceptance does not mean saying:

“It was okay.”

It means saying:

“It happened. I cannot change that part of my story. But I can decide what happens next.”

That is where our power begins.

We may not have chosen the family we were born into.

We may not have chosen every circumstance that shaped our childhood.

We may not have chosen every heartbreak, betrayal or loss.

But eventually, we have a choice about how much of our life energy we continue to give to those chapters.

What if we redirected the energy?

Think about how much energy can go into replaying the past.

Why did they do that?

Why didn’t they understand?

Why wasn’t I loved differently?

Why did this happen to me?

Why didn’t I get what I deserved?

Those questions are human.

Sometimes we need to ask them.

Sometimes we need to grieve them.

But there comes a moment when another question becomes more important:

What do I want to do with the life I still have?

Imagine taking even a fraction of the energy spent fighting the past and putting it toward the future.

Imagine learning something new.

Creating something.

Building a healthier relationship.

Writing the book you always wanted to write.

Travelling somewhere you’ve never been.

Taking care of your body.

Laughing again.

Falling in love with your own company.

Creating a life that no longer revolves around what happened to you.

Imagine.

Perhaps this is the real turning point

Maybe a turning point isn’t always dramatic.

Sometimes nobody else notices it.

It happens quietly inside you.

One day, you realise you don’t need to explain yourself anymore.

You stop fighting with a memory.

You stop waiting for someone to acknowledge your pain before allowing yourself to heal.

You stop asking the past to give you a different ending.

And you begin writing a new chapter.

Not because the old chapter didn’t matter.

Because it did.

It shaped you.

It taught you.

It hurt you.

It changed you.

But it does not have to define the rest of you.

This eclipse season, perhaps we can ask ourselves:

What am I ready to see differently?

What am I ready to release?

Where do I need to move from “no” to “yes”?

Where do I need to move from “yes” to “no”?

What would happen if I replaced “but” with “and”?

What if I stopped measuring my life by what I didn’t receive and began noticing what I have gained?

And most importantly:

What if the energy I have been using to rewrite my past could become the energy I use to create my future?

Perhaps the greatest eclipse is not the one that temporarily hides the light.

Perhaps it is the moment we realise that even when the light disappears from our view, it has not disappeared altogether.

And neither have we.

We are still here.

Still becoming.

Still choosing.

Still writing.

And perhaps, for the first time, we are finally holding the pen.