Venus was strong. So was the illusion

There’s a kind of love that feels like light—warm, golden, all-encompassing. Venus at her brightest. The kind that arrives like fate, like poetry you didn’t know you had memorized. You fall into it, not because you meant to, but because it felt inevitable. Meant.

But not all light is honest.

Venus can dazzle. She can dress desire in silk and gold, wrap it in beauty so exquisite, you don’t think to ask if it’s true. And when Neptune is near? That’s when the fantasy sets in. Lines blur. Red flags look like rose petals. You don’t see the person—you see the possibility.

You loved the way they made you feel. The softness, the ache, the idea of them. But now, with distance, the shimmer fades. You realize it wasn’t just them you lost. It was the story you told yourself. The connection that felt written in the stars but was never quite grounded on earth.

That hurts in its own way—grieving not just someone, but the future you imagined with them. The love that lived more in your hopes than in their actions.

Venus teaches many things: attraction, romance, joy. But she also teaches discernment. How to tell real gold from glitter. How to recognize the kind of beauty that isn’t just charming, but true.

So when illusions fall away, don’t call it failure. Call it sight. You learned to look past the glow. To ask better questions. To see more clearly.

Love will come again—less glossy, maybe. But stronger. Built not on projection, but presence.

The next time Venus shines, you’ll still feel the pull. But you’ll meet it with eyes open. Heart open, too—but wiser. Less willing to believe the dream. More ready to receive the real.