Oh boy. Eight of Cups. I’ve come crashing down to earth reality with a huge bang. I suddenly realised yesterday evening like a thunderclap: I’ve done all this preparation, some of it years in the making, and I’ve overlooked one very, very, very important piece of the puzzle. These days, possibly the most important piece.

The Iconography of Withdrawal

On my card, the Eight of Cups, a figure stands under the moonlight. A staff in hand, topped with—I don’t know—leaves, herbs. The wind is blowing their scarf and cloak, and you get the impression that their hat may be blown off their head. There is water and rocks.

The figure seems forlorn somehow, like they are shouting into the void. The eight cups stand on the ground: four are somewhat stable, as stable as they can be on unsolid ground. Three cups are perched across the four somewhat precariously, and the eighth cup stands on a row by itself, off-centre, vulnerable.

That is how I feel today. A lone figure and a fragile vessel. Can I take comfort from the Moon and the stars, which are bright in the deep blue night sky? A rocky outcrop is in shadow and darkness and can be seen across the water. Its features are unknown for now. Water can be seen pooling and overflowing into a waterfall, joining the larger body of water.

The Warning Signs in the Morning Ritual

I’ve just taken a sip of my coffee. I can taste washing up liquid. And the coffee is the instant I bought from the local coffee shop, because I’d forgotten to put coffee beans on my shopping list.

That should have been a sign. My coffee routine is such an important part of my daily process, and most mornings, my motivation to leave the comfort and safety of bed. The habit of grinding the beans, setting the filter, warming the milk. It’s like Pavlov’s dog. Is that what I mean?

There is something about the familiarity and the stages of the coffee making that sets my brain into getting ready for the day. I’m unsettled without it, and then when the first sip of the inferior replacement tastes like washing up liquid, it renders it undrinkable.

What to do? I was just about to write when the pen ran out of ink, which sank my heart even deeper. But then I changed the cartridge, and sometimes that doesn’t always go so well. I haven’t pushed the cartridge in properly, or an air bubble stops the ink from flowing.

But not this morning. The ink has graciously decided to flow smoothly, continuously, beautifully, and I’m going to take that as a sign. The day doesn’t have to spiral into disaster. I can keep looking for the positives. The water flowing into the pool, not focus on the vulnerable lone cup.

The Missing Piece: The Great Omission

So what’s the very, very, very important piece of the puzzle I’d overlooked? I’ve been so busy creating all the puzzle pieces and trying to put them together. Sometimes they are just blank, no hint of where they fit beyond their shape—and not even having all the pieces to begin with. Working out one piece at a time, the final piece, which possibly should have been the first piece: Who’s going to admire my puzzle when it’s finished?

My mind is going 100 miles an hour. I can hear and feel a resounding roar. Feel a pressure building.

So I do a few rounds of box breathing.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Keep going. Keep going until nothing but the breath and the counting exist. Thoughts drift, how dark it is when I get up now, and I love Autumn, but I miss the early sunrise.

Stop. In for four, stop for four, out for four, stop for four. Keep going, keep going, keep going. Slow down. Keep going until your heart has stopped racing, and your thoughts have stopped.

Nearly there. Stop counting. Test: can I hold one thought at a time? Yes, good. And what is that thought?

How on earth did I forget to work on the marketing ideas I’d spent so long figuring out?

The Marketing Abyss

I’m clueless in this respect. Business is all new to me. Give me a project aimed at a vulnerable group and I know—I understand how to reach that audience, how to get the numbers into the project, the referral routes, the promotion routes. But this? Social media.

I knew from the outset, this was going to be my biggest challenge. I remember being in the online marketing week of my business course, and the guy telling us all about the various platforms and being terrified, when he said, “TikTok has the biggest reach and greatest conversion rates by far.”

And my heart sinking a little—or a lot, really. And I asked him if I could go anywhere by just having a website, and he said, yes, that was possible. But then, since, everything I read, and all the other advice on the course, all directed that using social media was a must, not an option.

I knew that. I know that now in the cold light of day. But the sun is starting to rise. It’s not too late. I can save the day. I can regroup. I can fix this. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way. All is not lost. I’ve come so far and worked so hard.

The Counsel of the Cards

So what do the books say?

Author	Key Interpretation (Eight of Cups)
Sarah Bartlett	Changing Direction. Moving on, commitment to new values, leaving behind a difficult situation. Restore the balance to overcome obstacles.
Liz Dean	Turning away to seek what you need elsewhere. A decision to protect yourself in the long run.
Tina Gong	Say your goodbyes. Embrace vulnerability. Follow your own star.

The entirety of the wise words from this trio of wise women suggests that walking away could be for the greater good.

I’m prepared to walk away from what I realise now was a wild fantasy: that I’d somehow magically launch my website and open for business on Monday and have a ready audience. I’m foolish, yes, but not ready to throw the towel in. These things take time. I’ll walk away from my misguided fantasy, but not from what I’ve been building. It’s just going to take time.

And that’s all the time I have for now, my friends.