From "Quick Chat" Dread to Grounded Composure When There's No Agenda

The Calendar Ping That Turns Into a Trial

You draft “Hey—what’s this about?” three times, delete it three times, and somehow end up writing a defensive status report instead of doing the work you were literally doing five minutes ago.

That was the line I held in my mind when Jordan booked a last-minute session with me—29, early-career corporate, New York through and through. She didn’t come in asking for a mystical prediction. She came in asking what half the internet has Googled at least once: “My manager sent a ‘quick chat’ invite—what do I do next?”

She told me where she was when it hit.

“Eight forty-seven,” she said, like time itself was evidence. “On the 6 train heading uptown.”

I could almost smell the subway just from her description: that faint metallic warmth, the buzz of overhead lights, the press of bodies pretending not to notice each other. Her phone vibrated. Google Calendar flashed Quick chat—no agenda, no context, just that bland little rectangle that somehow felt like a spotlight.

“I opened Slack, then Gmail, then Calendar again,” she admitted, voice tight in a way you hear in people trying not to sound dramatic. “Like the answer was hiding in… punctuation. Timing. Anything.”

As she spoke, I watched the small tells: her jaw working like she was chewing something too hard to swallow, shoulders lifted almost to her ears, fingertips tapping her knee in a fast, silent rhythm. Anticipatory dread is never abstract in a body. In Jordan’s, it looked like a held breath that kept forgetting to exhale—like her nervous system had been switched to ‘high alert’ and someone misplaced the off button.

“I want to walk in calm,” she said. “But I also want control. Like—if I can just figure it out first, I’ll be safe.”

And there it was, clean and human: wanting clarity and control over the narrative versus fearing being evaluated and found lacking in a high-stakes moment. Not irrational. Not childish. Just a very modern workplace wound—authority plus ambiguity, the combo that makes your brain start producing trailers of worst-case scenes.

“Okay,” I told her, gentle on purpose. “We’re not going to force certainty. We’re going to build clarity. Let’s draw a map for this fog so you can take one calm next step.”

Choosing the Compass: The Celtic Cross · Context Edition

I asked Jordan to take one slow breath—not as a ritual for luck, but as a signal to her body that we were shifting from panic-editing to purposeful reading. While she exhaled, I shuffled and asked her to hold the question in a single sentence: “My manager sent a quick chat invite with no agenda—what do I do next?”

“Today,” I said, “I’m using a spread called the Celtic Cross · Context Edition.”

And to you, reading this: I like this version specifically for moments of workplace ambiguity—when the mind is trying to solve a missing agenda like it’s a hostage negotiation. This spread doesn’t just describe feelings; it separates the present stress response, the deeper protective need underneath it, the authority dynamics around it, and then—crucially—gives an integration stance. Not an ‘outcome’ prediction. A best-practice posture.

In this case, we needed a structure sturdy enough to hold Jordan’s spiral without shaming it. The center cross would show what her mind and body were doing right now—and what uncertainty was doing to her perception. The root would reveal what she was protecting. The staff would climb from her internal stance up through environment, hopes/fears, and finally into the integrating approach that makes the conversation workable.

“We’re going to read it like a staircase,” I told her. “Not a verdict. A way out.”

Reading the Map: Facts vs Stories in a City That Never Stops Refreshing

Position 1 — The immediate, observable stress response to the invite (what your mind and body are doing right now).

Now I turned over the card that represents the immediate, observable stress response to the invite.

Nine of Swords, upright.

The image is always the same kind of brutal honesty: someone sitting up in bed in the dark, like sleep itself got interrupted by a thought that refused to clock out.

And the modern translation in Jordan’s life landed immediately: It’s late and your apartment is quiet except for city noise. You’re in bed with your laptop open, rereading the “quick chat” invite and scanning Slack threads for ‘clues.’ You keep drafting and deleting a message asking what it’s about. Your chest is tight, your jaw is clenched, and you’re rehearsing explanations like you’re already being questioned—before anyone has even spoken.

“This card,” I said, “is your 3 a.m. brain snapshot. It’s not telling me you did something wrong. It’s showing me what happens when your mind gets handed blank space and tries to fill it with a script.”

Energy-wise, the Nine of Swords is excess Air—mental motion with nowhere to land. It’s thinking as a control ritual: refresh, re-read, draft, delete, rehearse, repeat. The ‘swords on the wall’ become every open tab: Slack tone analysis, calendar refresh, sent-email archaeology. Like running 20 Chrome tabs in the background until your battery drains and you start mistaking the low power warning for doom.

Jordan let out a short laugh that had a bitter edge. “That’s… too accurate,” she said. “Like, it’s rude.”

“It can feel cruel,” I agreed. “But it’s also a relief. Because if we can name the pattern, we can stop calling it your personality.”

Position 2 — What ambiguity is triggering and how uncertainty is distorting perception in this moment.

Now I turned over the card that represents what ambiguity is triggering and how uncertainty is distorting perception.

The Moon, upright.

In the Rider–Waite image, there’s a path between two towers under shifting light. A dog and a wolf howl—two instincts arguing. Something crawls out of the water: the part of you that only shows up when you can’t see clearly.

In Jordan’s day-to-day, it looked like this: the invite is a push notification with no preview, and her nervous system fills the blank with the worst possible content. She rereads the title and timestamp like it’s a coded message instead of a normal calendar placeholder.

“Ambiguity isn’t proof,” I told her. “It’s just missing context.”

The Moon is Water in low light: projection, imagination, threat-detection running too hot. It doesn’t mean your manager is secretly plotting. It means your system is treating the unknown agenda like danger, so your brain tries to ‘enhance’ the image—like a low-light photo you keep editing until you invent details that weren’t there.

Jordan’s eyes went a little unfocused, like she was replaying the moment on the train. She swallowed, then nodded once—small, reluctant recognition.

Position 3 — The underlying need being protected (control, security, reputation) that makes this feel high-stakes.

Now I turned over the card that represents the underlying need being protected.

Four of Pentacles, upright.

The figure clutches a coin to their chest. It’s not greed in this context—it’s the instinct to protect what feels fragile: stability, reputation, the right to belong.

“This is the part of you that equates safety with grip,” I said. “You’re holding your work identity like it can be taken away with one awkward meeting.”

Energy-wise, this is Earth in blockage: steadiness turning rigid. Under stress, the Four of Pentacles can look like hoarding information, over-prepping, and trying to pre-empt every possible critique. It’s ‘receipt culture’ as self-defense—screenshots, timestamps, links—before anyone even asked a question.

Jordan’s shoulders tightened at that, like she’d been caught doing something embarrassing in public. “I hate that I do that,” she said. “But it feels like… if I don’t, I’ll look incompetent.”

“I’m not here to take your grip away,” I said. “I’m here to help you loosen it on purpose—just enough that you can breathe.”

Position 4 — The recent work pattern that set the context for why you’re taking this so seriously (effort, proving, output).

Now I turned over the card that represents the recent work pattern that set the context.

Eight of Pentacles, upright.

This is the craftsperson card: repetition, skill-building, diligence. The part of you that shows up, learns, improves, delivers. In Jordan’s story, it was also the part that measures safety by output. If she can point to a clean doc, a completed project, a polished update, then she can breathe—temporarily.

“This is good work,” I said. “You’ve been building your competence for real. The risk is that the craft turns into a panic ritual: ‘If I make it perfect, nothing bad can happen.’”

Energy-wise, it’s Earth in balance that can tip into excess. It’s beautiful when it’s learning. It’s exhausting when it’s proving you deserve to exist.

Jordan’s mouth pressed into a line. Not disagreement—more like grief. Like she’d realized how much time she’d paid into that proving account.

Position 5 — Your conscious ideal for how this should go (fairness, clarity, integrity) and the standard you want to meet.

Now I turned over the card that represents your conscious ideal for how this should go.

Justice, upright.

Scales. Sword. A straight-backed throne. Justice is one of my favorite cards for workplace anxiety because it reminds us that feelings are real—but standards are stabilizing.

“Vibes aren’t data,” I said, and Jordan actually blinked like something unclenched behind her eyes.

Justice is Air in balance: clean thinking, clear language, self-assessment without self-attack. It’s the shift from “Do they like me?” to “What are the expectations, and how am I tracking against them?”

“A fair version of this conversation,” I told her, “is one where the topic is named, the standard is clear, and you leave with a next action—not a vibe.”

Jordan nodded—this time quicker. Her fingers stopped tapping for a moment, as if the card had offered her a railing to hold.

Position 6 — The next best move that reduces uncertainty without escalating the situation (a clean question, a measured prep).

Now I turned over the card that represents the next best move.

Page of Swords, upright.

The Page stands alert in the wind, sword raised lightly. Not aggressive—ready. Curious. Able to ask without apologizing for existing.

“This card is pure agency,” I said. “It’s how you stop mind-reading and start information-gathering.”

I gave Jordan the cleanest version of it—the one you can copy/paste when your thumb is hovering over Slack and your nervous system is begging you to write a novel:

“Happy to chat—anything you’d like me to come prepared with?”

Page of Swords energy is Air that works: direct communication, clean questions, reality-based clarity. It asks for context without over-explaining. And then—this is key—it steps away. It doesn’t sit there refreshing Slack like a slot machine.

Jordan made a face—half relief, half resistance. “That’s so simple,” she said. “And my brain is like, ‘If it was that simple, you wouldn’t be freaking out.’”

“That’s exactly why it works,” I told her. “One clean question beats a ten-page defense dossier.”

She let out a small exhale, the kind that doesn’t fix everything but does create a little space.

Position 7 — How you’re showing up internally and behaviorally when stressed (pace, tone, impulse to explain).

Now I turned over the card that represents how you’re showing up internally when stressed.

Knight of Swords, reversed.

Reversed, this Knight is what happens when speed outruns listening. The charging energy is still there, but the steering is messy: draft, delete, retype; ping, over-clarify, then freeze; show up to the chat already tense, talking too fast to actually hear what’s being said.

This is Air in excess and blockage at the same time: too much momentum, not enough grounding. And it can make your message come off sharper than you intend—because the body is in “brace for impact” mode.

Jordan’s eyes narrowed slightly, like she was annoyed at herself. “I do that,” she admitted. “I either over-message or I go silent and then panic right before.”

“The Knight reversed doesn’t need you to become zen,” I said. “It needs brakes. One draft, one edit, then stop.”

Position 8 — The external container: authority dynamics, workplace structure, and what your manager symbolizes here.

Now I turned over the card that represents the external container.

The Emperor, upright.

The Emperor isn’t here to be your villain. He’s here to remind us: hierarchy exists, and managers have a job that includes alignment, course correction, and expectations.

In my head, a film reference flickered—because that’s how my mind works. The Emperor can be The Godfather archetype in the healthiest sense: “Come sit. We’re going to talk business.” Not romance, not rejection. Structure. Terms. Clarity. In a corporate office, that can look like a ‘quick chat’ invite because calendars are packed and people move fast.

Energy-wise, this is structure as a container. It’s the reminder that not every firm tone is personal, and not every meeting is a performance review. Sometimes it’s just leadership doing its job in a blunt calendar way.

Jordan’s shoulders didn’t drop, but her neck softened by maybe one degree—the tiniest permission to consider that this might be normal.

Position 9 — The core fear of evaluation and the hope beneath it (to be seen fairly without being reduced to a verdict).

Now I turned over the card that represents the core fear of evaluation and the hope beneath it.

Judgement, reversed.

The trumpet in Judgement is the “evaluation alert” in your body. Reversed, it becomes internal: your brain is the courtroom, and you are both defendant and judge.

As soon as I said that, I watched Jordan go through a three-part micro-reaction chain so clear it could’ve been storyboarded.

First: a tiny freeze—breath caught high in her chest, fingers still.

Second: her gaze drifted, like she was replaying old feedback and attaching it to this invite.

Third: a quiet exhale and a small wince of recognition. “Oh,” she said softly. “I do put myself on trial.”

Here’s where The Moon and Judgement reversed clasp hands: the missing agenda becomes a blank screen, and your mind starts projecting a verdict onto it. Punctuation becomes Exhibit A. Response time becomes Exhibit B. Your last Slack message becomes Exhibit C. It’s a split-screen movie, and you’re watching the worst cut on repeat.

“Don’t treat the invite like a verdict,” I told her. “Treat it like a conversation.”

Jordan’s expression tightened, and she surprised me—this was her unexpected reaction. Not relief. A flash of anger.

“But if I stop treating it like a verdict,” she said, voice sharper, “doesn’t that mean I was wrong to be scared? Like I made it up?”

I nodded. “It can feel that way,” I said. “But being scared isn’t a moral failure. It’s a body response to authority plus ambiguity. The work isn’t proving you were never scared. The work is learning you can be scared and still communicate like an adult.”

When Temperance Poured Between Two Cups

Position 10 — Integration and best-practice posture: the regulating approach that makes the conversation workable and self-respecting.

We turned over what I consider the heart of this Context Edition spread—the integration stance that changes everything without pretending uncertainty disappears.

Temperance, upright.

The room got quieter in that particular way it does when someone stops performing calm and actually starts becoming calm. Outside my window, a siren passed and faded. The city kept moving, but the moment slowed.

Temperance is the alchemist. Two cups, pouring from one to the other. One foot on land, one in water. A path toward light. It’s not flashy. It’s skilled.

Setup: You know that moment right after the invite lands—your stomach drops, you reopen Google Calendar three times, and suddenly you’re rereading last week’s Slack thread like it’s evidence. Your mind is trying to win a meeting that hasn’t happened, because it thinks winning equals safety.

Delivery:

Stop treating the invite like a verdict; start mixing facts and tone like Temperance pours between cups, and let a measured pace create real clarity.

I let the sentence sit there for a beat. No rescuing it. No over-explaining it.

Reinforcement: Jordan’s face changed in layers. Her eyebrows lifted first—surprise, like she’d been given permission she didn’t know existed. Then her jaw loosened, almost reluctantly, as if it didn’t trust the room yet. Her shoulders dropped a notch. Not all the way. Just enough to notice the weight they’d been carrying. Her eyes brightened and then watered, and she blinked fast—half embarrassment, half relief. She inhaled, and for a second the inhale caught; then she exhaled in one long line, like letting air out of a balloon you’d been gripping too tight. “I can… pace it,” she said, voice smaller, steadier. “I don’t have to sprint.”

I leaned in slightly, and this is where my own signature lens comes in—the one I use as an artist when life feels like chaos. “I want to show you this with my Mondrian Grid Method,” I said. “Not because your life is a painting, but because your brain needs a frame.”

In my notebook, I drew a simple grid—clean rectangles, no drama. I labeled three boxes: Facts, Questions, Pace.

“Facts are one cup,” I told her. “Tone is the other. Temperance is the pour. And the grid is how you stop them from spilling into each other.”

Then I gave her the somatic rhythm Temperance asks for—two tracks, like turning down the playback speed on a voice note so you can actually hear it:

“Track one: I’ll listen first. Track two: I’ll respond second.”

And I asked her, gently but directly: “Now, with this new frame—facts, questions, pace—think back to last week. Was there a moment when you felt the dread spike, and this could’ve changed how you felt?”

Jordan stared at the grid like it was a door. “Yeah,” she said. “When I almost sent the long status update. I could’ve just… asked.”

“That,” I said, “is the shift. From tight dread to small, brave clarity-seeking. From self-indictment to measured openness. This isn’t about being fearless. It’s about building steady self-trust.”

From Insight to Action: The Smallest Next Moves That Actually Work

I gathered the spread into a single storyline for her—because a reading is only as useful as the path it offers.

“Here’s what I see,” I said. “Right now, the Nine of Swords is running the show—your body feels the invite like an alarm, and your brain tries to regain control by over-reading signals. The Moon crosses it: missing context becomes a screen for projection. Underneath, the Four of Pentacles is protecting your reputation and security, and the Eight of Pentacles shows you’ve been working hard—so productivity becomes your safety blanket. Justice is your conscious north star: you want fairness and clear standards. The Emperor reminds you this is happening inside a workplace container—structure, authority, expectations. Judgement reversed is the blind spot: you’re treating one conversation like a verdict on your worth. Temperance is the antidote: you mix facts and tone, slow the pace, and you get real clarity without needing certainty.”

The cognitive blind spot was clear: Jordan had been trying to earn respect by earning certainty. But the transformation direction was simpler—and kinder: ask for context like an adult, prepare lightly, and let steadiness be a strategy.

“Here are your next steps,” I told her, keeping it concrete and low-drama.

• Send one context request (30 seconds, Slack or email): “Happy to chat—anything you’d like me to come prepared with?” Tip: Don’t justify the ask. One sentence is enough. Boundary: no follow-up pings unless it’s truly time-sensitive—one request, then give them space.
• Do the 10-minute Facts vs Stories grid (10 minutes total): Set a timer. In Notes/Notion, write two headers: “Facts” and “Stories.” Add 3 bullets under each. Then add a third mini-box: “Questions” (1–2 bullets). Tip: If you feel your chest/jaw tighten while writing, stand up, sip water, and look out a window before you edit. You’re allowed to stop at “good enough.”
• Use my Oscars Speech Training for your opening (10 minutes prep, 2 minutes delivery): Write a two-minute “acceptance speech” for the chat—one breath, three beats: (1) “Thanks for making time.” (2) “I want to make sure I’m aligned—can you share what you’d like to focus on today?” (3) “Here are 3–5 factual bullets of what I’ve been working on.” Tip: Read it once out loud. If your voice speeds up, cut it by 30%.

A Week Later: The Quiet Proof

Six days later, Jordan texted me a screenshot—not of a Reddit thread, not of a panicked draft, but of a sent message: “Happy to chat—anything you’d like me to come prepared with?”

Under it, she wrote: “I hit send and put my phone screen-down. I didn’t die. I actually did my work for the next 20 minutes.”

She told me she slept a full night before the meeting. In the morning, her first thought was still, What if it’s bad?—but this time she noticed it, exhaled, and said, almost amused, “Facts, questions, pace.” Clear but still human. Steady, not perfect.

That’s the kind of clarity Tarot is best at: not fortune-telling, but pattern-naming and next-step choosing. A way to meet uncertainty without turning it into self-indictment.

And if a “quick chat” lands on your calendar with no context and you feel your chest tighten like you’re standing outside a closed door—trying to control the story, because you’re scared the conversation will confirm you’re not enough—please know you’re not alone in that reaction.

If you didn’t have to earn certainty to deserve respect, what’s one simple question you’d let yourself ask to get the context you actually need?