From Major-Switching Panic to Steady Confidence: A 90-Day Experiment
Degree Explorer at 8:12 p.m.: The Tabs That Start to Feel Like a Personality
If you’re a second-year student in Toronto who’s switched majors twice and still opens Degree Explorer like it’s going to finally hand you a personality… yeah, this is for you.
Maya found me on a rainy week when the campus started to smell like wet wool coats and printer paper. She came into my café with that look I’ve seen a hundred times—eyes a little too bright, shoulders a little too high, like her body had been holding its breath since midterms.
“I keep thinking the next major will finally make me feel sure,” she said, before she even sat down.
As she talked, the scene that kept returning—like a GIF her brain couldn’t stop replaying—was Robarts Library, 8:12 p.m. on a Wednesday. Fluorescent lights flattening everything into the same pale tone. The low hum of printers. A warm phone screen against her palm. Three tabs open: program requirements, a “best majors for jobs” list, and a Notes doc called life plan. Her thumb refreshing Degree Explorer like the page might change its mind and offer her a clean answer.
“My stomach gets… restless,” she told me, pressing her palm lightly to her abdomen like she could physically quiet the feeling. “And my jaw just locks. I keep telling myself I’m being responsible. But I also know I’m avoiding clicking ‘enroll’ on anything that would make it real.”
In my café, the espresso machine hissed and released its sweet-bitter cloud, and for a second I watched her inhale without meaning to—like her nervous system recognized something familiar in the routine of it.
Under all her research and spreadsheets, I heard the actual fear: not “What major should I pick?” but “What if I commit and it proves I can’t be trusted with my own life?”
Confusion can sound intellectual—pros and cons, practicality, timelines—but in her body it looked like someone bracing for an urgent decision that never arrives: a jaw held tight like a clenched lid, a stomach buzzing like a phone that won’t stop vibrating.
“We can work with this,” I said gently. “Not by calling you flaky. By mapping the pattern. Let’s make this a Journey to Clarity—not clarity as ‘the perfect forever answer,’ but clarity as your next workable step.”
Choosing the Compass: The Celtic Cross · Context Edition
I don’t do dramatic rituals. I run a café—if something can’t survive under daylight and deadlines, it’s not useful. So I started the way I always do: I asked Maya to put both feet on the floor, let her shoulders drop one millimeter, and take one slow breath in and out—not to “manifest,” but to shift her body out of emergency mode.
Then I shuffled, slowly enough that she could feel the pace change. A reading is a psychological handoff: you walk in with your mind sprinting, and you practice a different tempo on purpose.
“Today we’ll use a spread called the Celtic Cross · Context Edition,” I told her. “It’s perfect when you’re asking, ‘What pattern am I repeating?’ because it doesn’t just describe the present—it traces the chain: the behavior, the challenge, the root driver, the pressure around you, and then a grounded direction forward.”
To you, reading this: that’s why this spread works for choice paralysis and identity-building. It’s not predictive. It’s diagnostic. In this version, the near-future card is framed as next-step medicine, and the final card is framed as integration direction—so the outcome isn’t “fate,” it’s “what happens if you keep feeding the same loop vs. if you change the inputs.”
“We’ll start at the center,” I said, tapping the table. “Card one shows what the major-switching cycle looks like right now in your actual week. Card two crosses it—what keeps it repeating. Card three goes underneath: the deeper driver you might not even be naming.”
Maya nodded too quickly—like she wanted me to get to the answer before her doubt could interrupt.
Reading the Map: The Loop, the Split, and the Fog
Position 1 — Present pattern snapshot
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your present pattern snapshot—what the major-switching cycle looks like right now in daily behavior and momentum.”
Two of Pentacles, upright.
I angled it toward her. The juggler. The two coins looping in that infinity ribbon. The waves behind him pretending not to matter.
“This is like when Maya keeps two or three majors mentally ‘open’ at once, updating plans and backup plans so she never has to risk being all-in long enough to be measured by one choice.”
“Oof,” she said, and then she did the first unexpected thing—she laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that has a bruise in it. “That’s… kind of brutal.”
“I know,” I said. “But brutal doesn’t mean judgment. This card is actually giving you credit: you’re adaptable. You can handle change. The issue is the energy state.”
“Upright Two of Pentacles can be balance, but in your context it’s functioning as constant motion that prevents landing. Movement looks like progress. But it can also be a way to keep commitment at a safe distance.”
Maya’s fingers rubbed the edge of her phone case like she was trying to smooth something invisible. Her jaw tightened, then released a fraction.
Position 2 — Core challenge
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your core challenge—what keeps the pattern repeating even when you want clarity.”
The Lovers, reversed.
“This is like when Maya picks a major based on what advisors, family, or job-market lists recommend, then feels strangely numb doing the work because the choice didn’t come from her own priorities.”
I watched Maya’s eyes flick down and to the side—the way they do when someone recognizes themselves and doesn’t love it.
“Here’s the scene,” I said, using a frame I’ve learned in twenty years of overhearing people talk about their lives over coffee. “It’s like picking a playlist for a party you’re hosting for other people. It’s technically a good playlist. Everyone will approve. But you can’t relax inside it. You can’t even tell if you like the songs, because you’re watching everyone else’s reactions.”
Her breath went out slow. “Oh… yeah,” she said, quietly. “I picked something that looks right… so why do I feel numb doing the work?”
“Exactly. Reversed Lovers is misalignment. Not failure—misalignment. The choice is crossing you because it isn’t anchored in values you can actually live with.”
Position 3 — Underlying driver
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your underlying driver—the deeper uncertainty or fear feeding the repeated switching.”
The Moon, upright.
The room felt quieter for a beat, like the café itself was listening—steam softening the air, rain clicking the window in a steady metronome.
“This is like when Maya assumes a rough week in a class means she chose wrong, rather than seeing it as the normal ‘foggy’ phase of gaining competence.”
“The Moon is ambiguity,” I said. “Mixed signals. And a mind that fills in gaps with stories.”
Then I leaned on one of my own frameworks—because I’m not just reading symbols; I’m translating them into something you can use at 2 a.m.
“In my café, when a coffee tastes ‘off,’ I don’t throw away the entire bag of beans. I check the filter. Did the grind change? Did the water run too fast? The Moon is telling me your brain is absorbing everything—Reddit threads, LinkedIn posts, one tough assignment—without a filter. So the loudest, scariest story gets through and tastes like truth.”
This is my Knowledge Filtration lens: when information is everywhere, the skill isn’t “consume more.” It’s “filter better.” Under Moon energy, your mind is taking in the most anxiety-flavored data and calling it reality.
Maya swallowed. “So… uncertainty isn’t a stop sign,” she said, almost like she was trying the sentence on.
“It’s the winding road between towers,” I replied. “It’s the part where you can’t see far ahead yet. And that’s normal.”
Position 4 — Recent past
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your recent past—what the last two switches were trying to solve or protect you from.”
The Fool, upright.
“This is like when Maya felt a surge of relief and possibility after each switch, as if she finally reclaimed agency—until the next wave of doubt arrived.”
“I want you to hear this clearly,” I said. “The Fool isn’t ‘you messed up.’ The Fool is sincere curiosity. Switching majors can be an honest attempt to find the right learning environment.”
“But the cliff edge matters,” I added. “New beginnings are powerful. They also become addictive when they’re used as the only way to escape the vulnerable middle part of learning—where you’re not instantly good, and you can’t hide behind novelty.”
She nodded, but her eyes were glossy—not dramatic, just the kind of shine that comes when someone finally gets permission to be human.
Position 5 — Conscious aim
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your conscious aim—the kind of direction, meaning, or reassurance you’re trying to reach.”
The Star, upright.
“This is like when Maya feels calmer not because she found a perfect major, but because she remembers what she wants her life to stand for and can make choices that reflect that.”
“The Star is your north star,” I said. “Not a plan. A direction.”
And I gave her the contrast her nervous system needed—because The Star doesn’t work unless you place it against the night that came before it.
“At 2 a.m., your brain runs worst-case simulations like a broken notification system that won’t stop pinging,” I said. “But in the morning—when your body is less flooded—one page of values can feel like a compass. Not a full GPS route. Just enough direction to stop rerouting every time signal drops.”
She softened. The muscles around her mouth unclenched like they’d gotten tired of holding the line.
When Temperance Poured Between Two Cups
Position 6 — Next-step medicine
I paused before flipping the next card. Not for drama—for precision. “We’re about to turn over the card that represents your next-step medicine—the most helpful near-term orientation for breaking the repeat loop without needing a perfect answer.”
Temperance, upright.
On the card, water moves between two cups with zero panic. One foot on land, one in water. A path to a distant sun.
“This is like when Maya stops asking ‘Which major is the one?’ and instead builds a semester that tests her interests through real classes, office hours, and projects,” I said, letting the words land. “Temperance isn’t a new label. It’s an integration plan.”
Setup (the moment right before the shift): Maya was still caught in the old trap—like being in the campus library with three tabs open—program requirements, “best majors for jobs,” and a doc called “life plan”—refreshing them between texts like someone might finally hand her the right answer. She was trying to pick certainty, not a path.
Then I gave her the sentence I wanted her to keep.
Stop treating every doubt like a stop sign and start pouring your interests into one workable blend, like Temperance mixing two cups into something you can actually live.
I let the café noise return for a second—the grinder’s low growl, a spoon clinking against ceramic—so the line could echo in the space between us.
Reinforcement (the lived impact): Maya’s face did a whole quiet sequence. First: a freeze—her breath paused, and her fingers hovered over her phone like she’d been caught mid-refresh. Second: her eyes unfocused, as if she was replaying every moment she’d panicked after one hard assignment and called it “proof.” Third: her shoulders dropped, not dramatically, but in that unmistakable way of someone setting down a weight they didn’t realize they’d been carrying.
And then—the unexpected reaction—her brows pulled together. A flash of anger, almost protective. “But… if that’s true,” she said, voice sharper, “doesn’t that mean I was wrong? Like… I wasted time?”
I didn’t rush to reassure her. That would be another version of the same pattern: speed as relief.
“It means you were trying to get control,” I said. “And reset does feel like control. But practice creates actual control.”
I leaned forward, and this is where my café life became part of the reading—not as a cute metaphor, but as a lever. “When I create a new blend, I don’t declare, ‘This is my forever bean.’ I run tests. I brew it three ways. I take notes. I adjust the ratio.”
That’s Temperance: practical alchemy. Like making a semester playlist with two genres that actually works. Not ‘either/or identity,’ but ‘both/and experiment.’
“Now,” I said softly, “use this new lens. Last week—was there a moment when doubt hit, and you treated it like a stop sign? If you’d treated it like a signal to adjust the blend instead, what would you have done differently?”
Her voice went small. “Tuesday. Tutorial. I got confused, and I immediately opened other programs.” She exhaled. “I could’ve… gone to office hours. Or asked the TA instead of… spiraling.”
“That right there,” I told her, “is a shift from spinning uncertainty toward evidence and self-trust. Not a personality verdict. A new process.”
Climbing the Staff: Speed, Pressure, and the Workbench
Position 7 — Self-position
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your self-position—how your mindset and coping style participate in the pattern.”
Knight of Swords, reversed.
“This is like when Maya feels she has to decide immediately so she can stop feeling uncomfortable, even though the fastest decision is rarely the most aligned one.”
I named the micro-moment, because that’s where patterns live. “Typing the subject line ‘Program Change Request.’ Backspacing. Refreshing requirements pages. Jaw clenched, shoulders up.”
“Reversed, this Knight is blocked speed,” I said. “The energy is still sprinting—but it’s sprinting inside your head. And the sprint is trying to rescue you from discomfort.”
Maya did that nervous little laugh again, but this time it wasn’t bitter—it was recognition. “I literally drafted an email after seeing an internship post,” she admitted.
“Don’t make forever-decisions in a 2 a.m. nervous system,” I said, and she blinked like I’d just described her sleep schedule with unfair accuracy.
Then I added my other diagnostic tool—because timing matters. “In my world, I watch caffeine sensitivity all day. Some people can handle an afternoon espresso; others get anxious. Your decision-making has its own sensitivity curve. We’re going to diagnose your Focus Period—the times of day your nervous system can actually think.”
Position 8 — Environment pressure
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your environment pressure—how university structures, peer comparison, and external expectations shape the choices.”
The Hierophant, upright.
“This is like when Maya feels her options narrow because the university system rewards clear labels, prerequisites, and linear progress, even while she’s still learning what fits.”
“This card isn’t the villain,” I said. “It’s the system voice: credentials, prerequisites, ‘the proper path.’ Structure can support you. It can also drown out self-knowledge.”
I thought of my own past—signing leases, payroll, supply orders. People romanticize café life, but the truth is: structure is what lets warmth exist consistently. The Hierophant isn’t wrong for wanting structure. He’s wrong when he pretends structure is identity.
“You’re allowed to work with the keys,” I told her, nodding at the two keys on the card. “Learn the rules. Use the gates. But don’t let the institution define your interior life.”
Position 9 — Hopes and fears
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your hopes and fears—what you most want to avoid or secure through switching majors.”
Nine of Swords, upright.
“This is like when Maya replays every switch and imagines future regret, then tries to fix the feeling by making another change instead of making a plan she can follow.”
“This is the 2 a.m. montage,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Wasted time. Debt. Being behind forever. Being judged.”
“The story your mind tells at 2 a.m. is usually harsher than the reality you can plan for at 2 p.m.,” I added. “If it has to be 100% certain, it’s not a choice—it’s a trap.”
Her eyes dropped to the table. She didn’t cry. She just looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Position 10 — Integration direction
“Now we’re turning over the card that represents your integration direction—what helps you consolidate learning and build self-trust over the next season.”
Eight of Pentacles, upright.
“This is like when Maya commits to one semester of follow-through, tracks her engagement and skills weekly, and lets that evidence guide whether she adjusts, adds a minor, or stays.”
“This is the workbench,” I said. “Not glamorous. Not a rebrand. It’s Duolingo-streak energy. Tiny reps that quietly change your confidence.”
“Eight of Pentacles is grounded accumulation,” I continued. “And it’s the antidote to the reset loop, because it replaces ‘relief’ with ‘proof.’ Reset dopamine vs. earned confidence.”
Maya stared at the card, then at her hands. Her fingers were open now, not clenched. “So clarity isn’t… a feeling I wait for,” she said slowly. “It’s something I build.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Run the experiment. Let the evidence build your self-trust.”
The Two-Cups Plan: Actionable Advice for the Next 12 Weeks
I slid the cards into a simpler story, the way I’d explain a new blend to a barista who needed to make it consistently.
“Here’s the arc,” I said. “Right now, you’re juggling options (Two of Pentacles) because committing feels like getting trapped. But the real challenge isn’t that you’re incapable of choosing—it’s that you’re choosing for approval or safety instead of values (Lovers reversed), while your nervous system treats normal uncertainty like danger (Moon). The last two switches were honest exploration (Fool), and your deeper desire is a north star—meaning, authenticity, a life that feels like yours (Star). Temperance says: build a container that blends your real interests into a workable semester plan. Then the Eight of Pentacles says: stay long enough to gather evidence, and you’ll watch self-trust accumulate.”
“Your blind spot,” I added, “is thinking you need certainty before you commit. But your cards are clear: competence and evidence create clarity. Not the other way around.”
Then I gave her the next steps—small, specific, doable. Not as rules to obey, but as tools to interrupt the loop.
- Write a one-page Values ContractIn a Notes doc titled “Values Contract (Winter Term),” write: 3 values you want your education to serve (like stability, curiosity, impact), 2 non-negotiables (like manageable workload, a skill you can demonstrate), and 1 trade-off you accept (like “it won’t feel magical every week”). Use this to evaluate classes instead of ranking majors by prestige.If you hear “This is pointless unless it guarantees the right major,” label it as the reset-loop talking. Lower the bar: this contract chooses a test container, not a forever identity.
- Set a “Not at night. Not in panic.” boundary (48-hour delay rule)Make a personal rule: no program-change emails, form submissions, or big declarations within 48 hours of a stressful class, a comparison scroll, or any late-night spiral. If you feel compelled at 1 a.m., draft the email, save it, and schedule it for two days later—then revisit it in daylight.Put the reminder on your lock screen. This is Focus Period Diagnosis in real life: you don’t make high-stakes choices in a caffeine-and-adrenaline nervous system.
- Do the 10-minute Two-Cups Plan (Temperance → Eight of Pentacles)Open Notes and make two columns: “What I’m drawn to” and “What I’m willing to build.” Add 3 bullets in each. Circle one overlap you can test this week without switching majors (office hours once, one tutorial strategy change, one tiny project). Then set a calendar reminder titled “90-day review” for 12 weeks out.If your body flips into panic-mode (tight jaw, buzzing stomach), pause for 60 seconds—feet on the floor, one slow breath in/out—then come back only if it feels doable. The goal isn’t certainty today; it’s one repeatable test.
Before she left, I did something very on-brand for me—equal parts café owner and tarot reader. I poured her a small latte and, with her permission, turned my last bit of foam into a memory cue.
“This is silly,” she said, smiling for real now.
“Silly is underrated,” I told her. “With the Latte Memory Technique, you remember with your senses, not just your anxiety.” I wrote three words in the foam with a toothpick: Filter. Blend. Practice.
“When you’re back in Robarts with twelve tabs open,” I said, “I want those words to show up in your head like the smell of coffee on your sleeve.”
A Week Later: Ownership, Not Certainty
Six days later, a message from Maya popped up while I was restocking beans.
“I didn’t switch,” she wrote. “I went to office hours instead. It was awkward. But I got one concrete next step. Also I made the Values Contract and it made my schedule feel… less like a verdict.”
She added, almost as an afterthought: “I still woke up and thought ‘what if I’m wrong?’—but I didn’t spiral. I just… made tea and looked at my 90-day review date. Then I laughed a little.”
That’s the kind of clarity I trust: not fireworks, but a quieter nervous system and one action that proves you can stay present long enough to learn what’s true.
And if tonight you recognize that specific kind of strain—when choosing a major feels like choosing a whole life, so every normal doubt hits your body like an emergency—and restarting starts to feel safer than staying long enough to find out what’s actually true—remember: noticing the loop is already movement. It’s already you stepping out of the fog.
If you let your next step be a 90-day experiment instead of a forever-label, what’s the smallest evidence-gathering move you’d be willing to try this week?
