From IG Exclusion Hurt to Self-Respect: A Clean Next Step Tonight
The 9:18 p.m. Phone Glow, and the Dinner That Went Cold
You’re a late-20s Toronto marketing coordinator who opens Instagram at night and gets hit with the stomach-drop of an IG Story that looks like a group hangout without you—instant comparison spiral.
Taylor said it to me like they were confessing a petty crime, even though their eyes were already glassy from holding it in: “I hate that a Story can hijack my whole night.”
They were on a couch in socks in a downtown apartment, takeout container open but untouched, and that blue-white phone glow was doing what it always does—making everything look a little harsher than it is. In the clip, a bar they’d been to before. People laughing. Music thumping through tiny speakers. A quick pan of faces. Their stomach dropped in real time, like their body had decided it already knew the verdict.
By the time they showed up on my screen for our session, the night had replayed itself so many times it had the texture of a bruise you keep pressing to “check.” Tight chest. Restless hands. Thumb that couldn’t stop tap-refreshing. And the real dilemma underneath it all: wanting to ask for clarity and feel included, while fearing that bringing it up would confirm they’re not valued—or make them look “too much.”
“If I ask, I feel pathetic,” they said, voice small but controlled. “And if I don’t ask, I feel invisible.”
I let the words land without trying to fix them. “We’re not here to decide whether you’re ‘too much,’” I told them. “We’re here to find clarity—so your next step protects your dignity, not your spiral.”
Choosing the Compass: A Celtic Cross for a Very Modern Spiral
I asked Taylor to take one slow inhale and one slow exhale—not as a mystical ritual, but as a clean transition. A way to tell the nervous system: we’re not in the bar right now; we’re in a room with choices. While they breathed, I shuffled—steady, unhurried, like smoothing out a wrinkled map.
“Today I’m using a spread called the Celtic Cross · Context Edition,” I said. “It’s one of the most practical layouts I know for moments that feel like a social-emotional emergency, because it separates the pieces: what you felt, what you assumed, what the environment is doing, and what a self-respecting next step looks like.”
For anyone reading who’s ever Googled how tarot works at 2 a.m.: I don’t use tarot to spy on someone’s intentions. I use it the way I use psychology—pattern recognition, symbol language, and a structure that turns chaos into options. In this situation, a classic Celtic Cross is perfect because you don’t just need comfort. You need a full chain: the triggered moment, the immediate mental block, the deeper root, and an actionable way out of decision fatigue.
“Here’s the road map,” I added. “The center will show the emotional hit. The crossing card will show what’s blocking a clean next step. And the final card—position ten—won’t be a prediction. It will be integration: the most empowering move that brings clarity.”
Reading the Map: From Moonlight to Lantern Light
Position 1 — The Immediate Emotional Hit
“Now turning over, is the card that represents the immediate emotional hit and your most observable reaction to seeing the IG Story.”
Three of Swords, upright.
In the Rider–Waite image, a heart is pierced by three swords under storm clouds. It’s not subtle. And in modern life, it’s exactly that screenshot moment: one visual cue, one fifteen-second clip, and suddenly your whole inner weather system turns.
“This card doesn’t ask us to debate whether you ‘should’ be hurt,” I said gently. “It names the truth: that it hurt. The sting is real even if the backstory isn’t clear.”
Taylor gave a short laugh that sounded like it scraped on the way out. “Okay,” they said. “That’s… too accurate. Like, kind of brutal.”
I nodded. “Brutal is what it feels like when your brain takes a tiny clip and turns it into a full performance review of your social value.”
I asked them the question the card demands, the one that cuts through the noise without cutting you down: “When you saw it, what was the exact stomach-drop thought—I’m not wanted, I’m not considered, or I don’t know where I stand?”
Their eyes flicked away from the camera. “Not considered,” they said. “Like I wasn’t even on the list of people to check with.”
Position 2 — The Blockage: Why You Can’t Choose a Next Step
“Now turning over, is the card that represents what is blocking a clear next step—the decision paralysis and the mental loop that keeps re-triggering you.”
Two of Swords, reversed.
I almost smiled—not because it was funny, but because it was clean. The Two of Swords reversed is the exact feeling of being frozen while your mind pretends it’s ‘research.’
“I want you to picture your phone like your nervous system,” I said. “And right now, you’ve got five apps open: Instagram, iMessage, the group chat, Notes, your calendar—like you’re trying to schedule your way into certainty.”
As I spoke, Taylor’s thumb stopped moving for the first time since we started. Their shoulders loosened by a millimeter.
“Your inner monologue is doing that loop,” I continued, keeping my voice calm and specific. “If I ask, I’m needy. If I don’t ask, I’m nothing. And the trap is this: you’re trying to eliminate uncertainty before you move. But the cost of chasing certainty is dignity. You end up stuck, monitoring, mind-reading, refreshing—while the hurt stays active.”
Taylor exhaled, small but real. “Oh,” they said. “Yeah. I’m trying to make it safe before I move.”
“Exactly,” I told them. “And that’s why you feel stuck.”
Position 3 — The Root: What the Story Activated Underneath
“Now turning over, is the card that represents the deeper psychological root—what uncertainty and old patterns the Story activates beneath the surface.”
The Moon, upright.
In the Moon card, there’s a winding path between towers. Animals responding instinctively. A creature crawling out of the water. It’s the psyche in low light—shapes without clear edges.
“Instagram is acting like moonlight here,” I said. “It shows you shapes, not truth. And your imagination—trying to protect you—fills in the blanks with the scariest plausible story.”
I let my Jungian brain translate it plainly: “This is projection territory. Old experiences of being overlooked rush forward and start narrating the present. Not because you’re dramatic. Because your nervous system remembers.”
Taylor swallowed. The tiniest nod. Their hands were still jittery, but now they were listening instead of chasing.
“A Story is not a verdict,” I reminded them. “Moonlight makes everything look like evidence when it’s really just incomplete information.”
Position 4 — The Recent Past: The Watcher Pattern
“Now turning over, is the card that represents the recent behavior pattern that led to this moment—how you’ve been relating, checking, or interpreting signals.”
Page of Swords, upright.
The Page stands in the wind, sword raised, alert. Smart. Quick. And in 2026, this is the part of you that knows the exact order people appeared in the Story, who reposted, who reacted, and what time the clip went up.
“This isn’t a character flaw,” I said. “It’s vigilance. You care. You want to understand.”
Then I made it practical: “But observation is not the same as information. The Page can become a watcher. And watching can keep the wound open.”
Taylor’s mouth tightened, like they hated how true it was. “I literally checked who viewed my Story after I went quiet,” they admitted. “Like… that counts as being chosen.”
“It counts as being seen,” I corrected softly. “Not the same thing.”
Position 5 — The Conscious Aim: Your Inner Standard of Fairness
“Now turning over, is the card that represents the conscious need and value at stake—what you want to be true about fairness, respect, and inclusion.”
Justice, upright.
Justice sits with scales and an upright sword—facts and values, side by side. I felt my old cruise-ship trainer self stir: on a ship, misunderstandings happen constantly, across cultures, languages, expectations. The only thing that keeps things from turning into chaos is a clear standard and calm communication.
“This is you reaching for integrity,” I told Taylor. “No passive tests. No guessing games. Just a clean standard for what’s okay with you.”
I offered the ‘scales’ as a checklist, something you can do even when your chest is tight:
“Left side of the scales: what you saw. Right side: what you’re assuming. Brutally literal. No mind-reading allowed.”
Taylor blinked slowly, like their brain had been sprinting and finally hit a red light. “If I were advising a friend… I’d tell them to just ask,” they said.
“Fairness to others is easy,” I said. “This is fairness to you.”
Position 6 — The Next 7 Days: The Cooling-Off Window
“Now turning over, is the card that represents the next seven-day window—what energy is most helpful to embody before taking action.”
Temperance, upright.
The angel pours between cups. One foot on land, one in water. A path leading to sunrise. This is regulation, but in a way that doesn’t require you to be a different person—just a steadier version of the same one.
As I named it, I saw the micro-shift the card always invites: Taylor lowered their phone slightly. Reached for a water glass. Put both feet on the floor. The camera caught their shoulders dropping a fraction.
“Not forever,” I said, anticipating the fear that slowing down means losing your chance. “Not avoidance. Just baseline first.”
“Urgency isn’t accuracy,” I added. “Don’t send texts from adrenaline.”
Position 7 — You: The 2 a.m. Loop in Your Body
“Now turning over, is the card that represents your internal state and self-story right now—how your mind and body are processing this.”
Nine of Swords, upright.
It’s the card of sitting up in bed, exhausted, while your mind stages trial after trial after trial. In real life: 2:11 a.m., your phone already warm in your hand, eyes stinging, drafting a long DM with “lol” and “no worries” sprinkled in like emotional camouflage.
“Your mind thinks it’s protecting you by rehearsing every humiliation,” I told Taylor. “But it’s costing you sleep and self-trust.”
Taylor rubbed their jaw, like they’d been clenching for hours. “I wake up foggy and angry at myself,” they said. “And then I act normal at work like it’s Severance or something.”
“Exactly,” I said. “You look fine in public, and fall apart at home. That’s not weakness. That’s overload.”
Position 8 — Environment: When a Group Becomes a Scoreboard
“Now turning over, is the card that represents the social field and group dynamic context—what the environment is doing that amplifies the sting.”
Three of Cups, reversed.
Usually it’s celebration. Reversed, it’s that nauseating sense of the circle closing without you. Cliques. Last-minute plans. Overlapping friend groups where being included sometimes depends on who happened to be online at the right time.
“This matters,” I said carefully, “because it means part of the pain is the environment, not a clean verdict on your worth.”
Taylor’s eyes narrowed—not angry at me, but at the reality of it. “It’s messy,” they said. “And I keep treating it like a referendum.”
“Yes,” I said. “Social media turns relationships into triangles: you, them, and the audience. The card is asking you to come back to one line: you and the person you need clarity with.”
Position 9 — Hopes and Fears: The Terror of Stepping Back
“Now turning over, is the card that represents the hope-fear tension—wanting self-trust and connection while fearing isolation or rejection.”
The Hermit, upright.
The Hermit holds a lantern. Not moonlight. Lantern light: self-led, close-range, one step at a time.
“You want self-trust,” I said. “And you’re afraid that if you step back, you’ll end up alone.”
Taylor’s face softened, and for a second the defensiveness drained away. “Yeah,” they said. “If I stop trying, I’m scared no one will notice.”
“This isn’t ‘ghosting as self-care,’” I told them. “This is an intentional retreat. A boundary that gives you your own signal back. The Hermit asks: What do you need to feel respected in friendship, even when no one is posting proof?”
When the Queen Raised Her Sword: The One Clean Line
I could feel the room change before I even touched the last card—like when a streetcar finally quiets after rattling for blocks, and you realize how tense your shoulders were the whole time.
“Now turning over,” I said, “is the card that represents integration as a next step—the most empowering, self-respecting move that brings clarity.”
Queen of Swords, upright.
Here she is: calm posture, direct gaze, one sword held upright. Not ten swords. Not a storm of words. One clean blade of truth.
Setup. I looked at Taylor and named the exact moment they’d been trapped in: dinner going cold, thumb hovering between Instagram and an iMessage draft, telling themselves they’ll check the Story “one last time” just to feel less crazy—because choosing a move feels like choosing a risk.
Delivery.
Not ‘figure it out in the dark’—say it plainly, with your sword held upright like the Queen of Swords, and let clarity (not guessing) determine your next move.
I let it hang there. No extra commentary. Just air.
Reinforcement. Taylor’s body did a full three-beat reaction chain. First: a freeze—breath caught, eyes wide, hands hovering as if they’d been caught mid-scroll. Second: the cognition seeped in—their gaze went slightly unfocused, like they were replaying the last week’s checks, drafts, deletions, the viewers list, the mutual friends’ reactions, the little courtroom case their brain had built from timestamps. Third: the release—an exhale that sounded like someone finally putting a heavy bag down. Their shoulders dropped, but there was also that strange, dizzy vulnerability that comes when the noise stops and you realize you’re the one who has to choose the next step.
“But if I’m direct…,” they started, and there was a flash of irritation, almost grief. “Does that mean I’ve been doing it wrong?”
“It means you’ve been trying to keep yourself safe,” I said. “And now we’re updating the strategy.”
This is where my own toolkit comes in—what I call Social Role Switching. “On a cruise ship,” I told them, “people assume the wrong thing constantly. The skill isn’t to become emotionless. It’s to choose the right role for the moment.”
“Right now,” I continued, “your nervous system is in Watcher Mode—Page of Swords. The Queen asks for Assertive Mode, but without the ‘gotcha’ voice. Assertive doesn’t mean harsh. It means clear.”
I gave them a ten-minute ‘Queen of Swords’ reset—practical, almost boring on purpose: “Put your phone on Do Not Disturb for ten minutes. In Notes, write two lines only: (a) Observable fact: ‘I saw the Story from ___ on ___.’ (b) One direct question: ‘Was that a last-minute thing, or did I miss the invite?’ Stop there. No receipts. No paragraphs. If your chest tightens, close Notes and take six slow breaths. Your boundary is: you only hit send when your body feels steadier, not when your fingers are frantic.”
Then I asked, “Now—with this new lens—can you think of a moment last week when one clean question would have changed how you felt?”
Taylor’s eyes shone. “Yesterday morning on the TTC,” they whispered. “I rewatched it in my head like it was still playing. If I’d just… asked… I could’ve had an answer instead of a whole day of… whatever this is.”
“That,” I said, “is you moving from stomach-drop hurt and mind-reading into a regulated pause and reality-check. It’s the first step toward steadier self-respect—with or without their validation.”
From Guessing to Actionable Advice: The Clean Question Plan
When I looked back across the spread, the story was almost painfully coherent. The Three of Swords showed the real sting. The Two of Swords reversed showed the freeze: trying to buy certainty with scrolling. The Moon showed why it got so loud: partial visibility inviting projection. Justice crowned it with values—fairness, respect, clarity. Temperance offered the antidote: baseline first. The Hermit offered a different light source: your own. And the Queen of Swords turned all of that into one clean line.
The cognitive blind spot here is subtle: you’ve been treating avoidance like emotional intelligence because it keeps you looking “chill.” But it also abandons your reality. The transformation direction is the opposite of dramatic confrontation—it’s a calm, reality-based conversation and a boundary about what you’ll tolerate.
I summarized it for Taylor in the simplest terms I know: “Clarity beats guessing—every time. Not because clarity is always comfortable. Because guessing is expensive.”
Then I offered next steps that were small enough to do even with a tight chest.
- The 10-Minute Baseline Reset (Temperance)Before you write, reply, or check anything: put your phone face-down, drink a full glass of water, and eat something small (even a granola bar). Sit with both feet on the floor for 10 minutes—timer on.If “regulation” makes you roll your eyes, call it “don’t let adrenaline type.” Do the smallest version and decide nothing tonight.
- Draft the Two-Sentence Check-In in Notes (Queen of Swords)In Notes (not the DM box), write only: (1) the observable fact and (2) one direct question. Example: “Hey—saw your Story from Bar X on Tuesday. Was that a last-minute thing, or did I miss the invite?”Expect the resistance voice (“this is cringe / I’ll look needy”). Treat that as the signal to simplify—not to add paragraphs.
- Use the 12-Hour Send Delay + One Physical ExitWait 12 hours before sending. If you still want to send it tomorrow and your body feels calmer, hit send. Then put your phone away for 20 minutes and do something physical (walk to Shoppers, take out recycling, shower, quick block loop—anything that moves your body).This is my Maritime Social Protocol in modern form: ask cleanly, then step back from the crowd noise. A ship teaches you this fast—don’t hover by the door waiting for applause.
If Taylor chose to send, I also offered a ready-to-use script from my “slow speech + I need…” boundary toolkit—translated for text: slow typing, no sarcasm padding, no “lol” as emotional armor. “If your hands are jittery,” I reminded them, “it’s not sending time. One sentence. One question. Then breathe.”
A Week Later: The Quiet Proof of Finding Clarity
Seven days later, Taylor sent me a message at 11:12 a.m.—not 2:06 a.m.—and that alone felt like a small miracle.
“I did the Notes thing,” they wrote. “Waited overnight. Sent two sentences. Then I walked to Shoppers near Queen/Spadina and left my phone in my pocket like it was trying to bite me.”
They told me the friend replied: it had been last-minute, a weird chain of “who’s already out,” not a planned exclusion. And Taylor’s body still did its little flinch of embarrassment—because wanting to be included can feel so tender—but it didn’t turn into a spiral. They slept a full night. In the morning, the first thought was still, What if I’m wrong?—and then, they said, they actually smiled a little. Not because everything was solved. Because they had a standard now.
That’s the real Journey to Clarity I care about. Not perfect certainty. Ownership. The shift from decoding social media for meaning to gathering real information with one calm question—and holding a boundary that protects self-respect.
When you’re hurt, you can feel yourself hovering outside the “party”—refreshing, zooming, rewriting—because asking directly risks the one thing your nervous system is terrified to confirm: that you don’t belong.
If you didn’t have to earn belonging by being “chill,” what’s one simple, honest question—or one quiet boundary—you’d be willing to try this week?
