it's the year of the snake
on shedding the layers of self that no longer serve us
It’s the year of the snake. Did you know that?
It’s the year of the snake, which calls for serpentine behavior from me and you.
Hissing at strangers. Slithering somewhere sunny. Curling up, coiling around. Shedding of scales.
Shedding of scales?
Yes.
You look down and there it is—layers upon layers of old dead skin piled beside you. The scales are dried out and hardened. The pile gets bigger and bigger. Eventually it blows it away—the old dead skin—scattering like a dandelion blown in a huff from the West Texas wind.
Whoosh! You look down and in awe you see your new baby snake skin. A revitalized iridescence. More vitality and life. New possibilities in this new skin of yours.
But, you are not a snake. It is just you—in your human form. Yours and mine, so beautiful. Iridescent in our own way, still.
So, what remains? You take this literally.
What remains is your baby-snake-skinned self. But, you are not a snake. You do not slither on the desert floor. Instead, you find yourself naked at a Korean spa and slither into one of the hot pools. Later, you hiss on a wet table as your new Korean auntie scrubs every inch of your corporeal form.
You peak one eye open. You might be alarmed by what you see—the brownish little balls of rolled up scales—skin. Your skin. My skin.
You might think to yourself, how the hell does my body have this much old dead skin? Or you might even think, simply, ewww, gross. But, the auntie doesn’t care what you think, really. Today she has seen so many snakes—women. All with old dead skin needing scrubbing, sluffing, shedding. So, the auntie scrubs. She does so with love, with vigor.
You put the thoughts aside and enjoy the sensation—scrub, scrub, limbs lifted, warm water splashed, scrub, scrub. On it goes. You peak one eye open again. This time you watch your old self wash away—down the drain of a wet room somewhere in suburbia. You walk away glistening. Your skin is still there, pink and sensitive to the touch.
But, it’s not only your literal skin you want to shed, is it? Not just your epidermis.
No.
You want to go deeper. You want to scrub away the hardened layers of heartache, trauma, the dark corners of self. Parts of yourself the auntie can’t reach.
Is there a Korean spa for our thoughts? Our souls? We are evolved creatures after all. Maybe we can slither into a hot pool of therapy, and later hiss on a wet table of deep introspection as you and I each scrub away every inch of the old dead skin of our spiritual forms. We scrub ourselves, unable to rely on an auntie to do it for us.
You don’t peak one eye open. You don’t have the luxury of keeping your eyes closed as you scrub. You are still alarmed by the brownish little balls of rolled up scales—the old dead versions of yourself falling to the ground. Your past heartache, scars from your lived trauma, the rubble from the dark corners of yourself. I see mine, too.
The old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now. You finally understand what she meant.
The old dead skin is that of the pathological people pleaser you once were—maybe still are to some degree. The flawed skin of an “everybody must like me” little girl—just trying to protect herself. The scarred skin of an eldest daughter complex gone off the rails. The irritated skin of anger with no safe and cleansing outlet. The pock-marked skin of toxic positivity, toxic masculinity.
Whatever it is, it’s gone. Why? Because she’s dead.
That old dead version of her is washed down the drain of the spiritual wet room somewhere in your heart’s suburbia. You watch it wash away, and as you do, you hiss with bittersweet glee.
Because, it’s the year of the snake. Did you know that?
Our serpentine selves are teaching us how to shed the old dead skin. That’s what we’re doing this year. You and I.
We are shedding the layers of self that no longer serve us.
I am shedding the layers of myself that no longer serve me.
The skin of old dead versions of myself that feel too small, too tough, too contained. I just needed time. I just needed the sometimes literal, always spiritual hot pool, the aunties of all kinds, the serpentine nature of my human form to be fully present and fully trusting in her abilities, her strength.
The conditions must be right. The old dead skin—versions of myself—must actually be dead before they are scrubbed away.
Remember what remains. The new-baby-snake-skinned version of you. Of me. She is the core self. And, she is hissing, slithering, coiling. She can’t come to the phone right now because a new version of her is stepping forward, shining from within in all her iridescence, leaving the old dead scales behind.
The Year of the Snake is January 29, 2025, through February 16, 2025. More information can be found here if you are interested.
The last Year of the Snake was in 2013, which, for me, was the year I graduated law school, took and passed the bar exam, moved back to Texas, and started my career as an attorney. I am not steeped in knowledge or practice in the Chinese zodiac, but this year in particular, I am fascinated. The symbolism resonates deeply, which is prompting (obviously) a lot of reflection and a lot of questioning of self—who was I in 2013? What was I shedding then? What scales and iridescence were on my corporeal and spiritual forms? Questions I continue to ask and continue to play with, in form, concept, and direction.
P.S. Can we all collectively manifest a rep (Taylor’s Version) drop this year? Seems fitting, right?
Oh we will manifest Rep with everything we have!🖤
“heart’s suburbia”