March has always been a month of change, of endings and beginnings woven together. I dedicate this month to Kali, the great Hindu goddess of transformation, death, and creation—she who destroys illusions, she who devours what no longer serves, she who clears the way for what must come next. And how fitting it was that I became an Australian citizen yesterday, under the light of the Blood Full Moon and on the threshold of the Autumn Equinox.
On the surface, citizenship is a bureaucratic formality—a legal status, a passport, a right to vote. But beneath that, it is a profound shift in identity and belonging. The weight of it sits with me, not just in the simple pride of calling this country my primary home but in the complex reality of what it means to be American abroad, to be Cuban in the diaspora, and to live in the space between nations, histories, and homes.
The long shadow of empire
Identity is never a simple thing. We shape it, but it is also shaped for us. We claim it, but it is not always ours alone to define.
I was born in Cuba, raised in Miami, and now live in Australia. Each place has left its mark on me, yet I am seen as slightly other in each. In Miami, I was Cuban to Americans and American to Cubans on the island. Here, I am simply American, and probably always will be, my accent an anchor to a past life. But Cubanidad is not something I can leave behind. It is in the way I move, the way I cook, the way I speak, the rhythms that live in my bones. It is the voice of my ancestors whispering through my blood. It is the rituals, the offerings, and the spirits that walk with me.
To be Cuban in exile is to belong and not belong all at once. The island is a home I have never known, a place held in blood and myth. One day when I return, I will be a guest, my Spanish marked by years away, my presence a reminder of departures. And yet, Cuba is in me. It always will be.
To be an American abroad is to carry the weight of a nation’s story wherever you go. It is to be seen as both individual and symbol, an emissary of a place that has shaped the world in ways both triumphant and terrible.
Though I left the United States in 2012, I still feel the weight of what is happening there now. The cruelty, the chaos, the unmasking of fractures long ignored—it all reaches across oceans. Friends back home are fighting battles I cannot stand beside them for. The fabric of reality feels frayed, stretched thin by corruption, disinformation, and the creeping shadow of authoritarianism. From afar, I watch as old wounds deepen, as the rights of so many are stripped away, as violence simmers beneath the surface. And yet, I am still tethered. The passport in my drawer is a reminder that I am still part of that story.
Now, as both an American and an Australian, I carry all these stories. There is no leaving one behind, only the weaving of them together. And Australia, too, is a land of colonial scars, deep and ongoing reckonings, and questions about belonging and responsibility. It is not an escape from history but an invitation to engage with it more consciously.
Sacrifice and transformation
And so, under the Blood Full Moon in Virgo, I sit with all this.
This moon, heavy with the weight of completion, shines a light on what must be surrendered. The name ‘Blood Moon’ carries the echoes of sacrifice. The ancients understood this well. In their rites, blood was offered to the land; life was given so that life might continue. There was an acceptance that death and renewal are not separate things but part of the same great movement.
With her meticulous energy, Virgo asks for discernment, for the cutting away of what no longer serves. And Kali, in her infinite wisdom, wields her blade without hesitation. She does not wait for readiness. She does not ask politely before severing attachments. She devours so that something new might rise from the ashes.
This moon asks me: what must I give? What parts of myself must I lay to rest? What is the cost of stepping forward, and am I willing to pay it?
Standing at the threshold
At the same time, the Wheel of the Year turns. The Equinox approaches, and with it, a moment of balance. Here in the Southern Hemisphere, we descend toward the dark half of the year. This is the last breath of equilibrium before the nights stretch longer and before the inward pull deepens—the season of harvest, of gathering what has been sown and preparing for the inevitable stillness ahead.
And yet, it is only March. It has been three months since the year began, and I am just getting started.
For Pagans in the Northern Hemisphere, this is a time of spring’s arrival, a mirror image. Where I once stood in that cycle, the energy was about emergence, rebirth, and new life stirring in the earth. Now, I stand on the other side, where the descent begins. And yet, both are the same movement—life and death intertwined, one feeding the other.
There is something profound in experiencing the Wheel of the Year from two hemispheres. All things exist in a dance of reflection. Even as I move deeper into one cycle, another part of the world moves into its opposite. That nothing is truly separate.
Citizenship, devotion, and stepping forward
To dedicate this month to Kali is to stand in the fire of transformation willingly and to let her strip away the illusions, the outdated stories, and the weight of what does not need to be carried forward.
To be Cuban in exile is to hold the stories of my ancestors while forging a new path, to honour where I came from while making peace with the fact that home is no longer one place but many.
To become an Australian citizen is to acknowledge that belonging is not passive. It is an ongoing act of engagement, listening, and responsibility to land and people.
To witness the Blood Moon and the Equinox together is to know that this is a moment of reckoning. A time to choose what is given, what is kept, what is offered to the flames.
This March, I stand at the crossroads of all these transformations. I let Kali’s gaze strip me bare. I honour the Full Moon’s clarity. I walk into the Equinox, knowing that the scales will tip, that the darkness will come and that this, too, is sacred.
Mighty powerful words, Cosette. It can be tough to occupy liminal spaces physically and spiritually, especially with respect to identity. The only way out during periods of transition is through, always. Thank you for reminding me of how powerful loving, mindful awareness is as a tool for periods like this. Sending you all the strength and introspective vibes necessary as the autumnal equinox nears in your neck of the woods 💙