Mid-Year Reflection: The Year of the Fire Horse

Back in January, I disappeared down what can only be described as a neurospicy rabbithole. What started as curiosity about the Year of the Yang Fire Horse quickly turned into hours of reading historical timelines, comparing cultural movements, looking at political reform, medical breakthroughs, and asking myself one question: Do Fire Horse years actually have a pattern?

I wasn't trying to predict the future. I wasn't trying to prove astrology right or wrong. Chinese astrology, much like Traditional Chinese Medicine, isn't really about predicting individual events anyway. It's about understanding the quality of the energy surrounding a period of time. Just as I can tell you summer is likely to be hot without knowing exactly which day will hit 100 degrees, astrology describes the climate more than the weather.

When I looked back at the last three Fire Horse years—1846, 1906, and 1966—I kept seeing the same themes emerge. Systems became strained. Long-held beliefs were questioned. Truth-tellers spoke up, often facing resistance before eventually being heard. Women and marginalized communities carried disproportionate burdens. Art, music, humor, and community became essential survival tools. Most importantly, reform almost never happened during the Fire Horse year itself. Instead, these years acted as catalysts. They exposed what was no longer working and started conversations that continued for years afterward.

At the end of that blog (read it here) I wrote that 2026 would likely be loud. I suggested we would probably see tension around healthcare, immigration, reproductive autonomy, environmental issues, mental health, and human rights. I encouraged everyone to find one thing worth standing for, but to also remember that history shows us joy isn't a distraction during difficult times—it's one of the ways we survive them.

So...

Here we are.

Six months into the Year of the Fire Horse.

I think it's safe to say the Horse showed up.

The world has felt like it's been on fire, and in many places it quite literally has. Here in Nebraska we've watched devastating wildfires reshape parts of our state while Colorado and much of the western U.S. and this week large parts of Canada have battled the same. Europe has experienced record-breaking heat waves. Disease outbreaks have continued making headlines, from Cyclospora contaminating food supplies to norovirus outbreaks and renewed concern over Ebola overseas. We've watched escalating conflict involving Iran, continued war in other parts of the world, immigration dominate political conversations, rising costs of living stretch families thinner, and artificial intelligence reshape nearly every industry at a pace most of us can barely keep up with. We even saw the reflecting pool in Washington become green a murky- a wonderful metaphor for how difficult it is to see the truth sometimes. Every week seems to bring another headline before we've had time to process the last one.

Whether you agree with every protest, policy, or political movement isn't really what interests me here. What interests me is the pattern. Fire Horse years have historically been years when people stop quietly accepting the status quo. They are years when institutions are questioned, when people become more willing to speak uncomfortable truths, and when the cracks in our systems become impossible to ignore. The Horse doesn't create every problem. It simply runs fast enough that anything unstable struggles to keep up.

One thing I don't think I fully appreciated back in January is that Fire Horse years aren't resolution years. They're transition years. Looking back historically, 1906 didn't solve labor rights. It exposed them. 1966 didn't complete the Civil Rights Movement. It amplified it. 1846 didn’t solve the issues around westward expansion either. The reforms most people remember happened later because meaningful change takes time. Fire doesn't rebuild the forest. Fire clears away what can no longer survive so something new has the opportunity to grow.

I also don't think we can fully understand this year without remembering the one that came before it.

Last year was the Year of the Snake.

Snakes shed their skin because they've outgrown it. Shedding isn't comfortable, but it's necessary. Immediately afterward, however, that new skin is incredibly soft and vulnerable. Then we walked straight into a year ruled by Fire.

No wonder so many people feel burned out.

Some people experienced that warmth as momentum. They started businesses, changed careers, moved across the country, or finally acted on dreams they'd been carrying for years. Warmth and fire can be so nourishing for some. Others experienced the exact same fire as overwhelming. Too many decisions. Too much information. Too many responsibilities. Too much uncertainty. The fire itself wasn't different. Our starting point was.

When I picture this year, I don't actually picture a calendar. I picture a horse.

Not standing quietly in a pasture, but running full speed across a dry prairie. Every hoofbeat strikes the earth, throwing sparks into the grass beneath it. Those sparks catch, and suddenly a line of fire trails behind the horse as it races toward the horizon. The horse never stops to debate what should or shouldn't burn. It doesn't pause to look behind itself. It doesn't ask permission. It simply runs headlong and with purpose.

That image has stayed with me because it feels remarkably similar to the first half of 2026. Every week another headline. Another policy. Another protest. Another breakthrough. Another disaster. Another reason to celebrate. Another reason to grieve. The Horse keeps running, and behind it the landscape changes.

One of the things fire naturally creates is a line. There is the land that has already burned and the land that hasn't. There is a division. Some people are left standing on opposite sides of the fire line. Looking around this year, it feels like those lines have become impossible to ignore. Political opinions, healthcare, technology, climate, identity, education, even the way we define community itself—all of it feels more polarized than it did just a few years ago. I don't think the Fire Horse created those divisions. I think it illuminated them. Fire has a way of making hidden fault lines visible.

But here's the important part.

The Horse never turns around to rebuild.

That's our job.

One of the things I love most about Traditional Chinese Medicine is that the elements are never viewed as good or bad. Fire isn't evil because it burns. Fire has a purpose. It cooks our food. It keeps us warm. It brings people together around a campfire. It transforms raw clay into pottery, sand into glass, and ore into usable metal. Forest ecosystems often depend on periodic fires to clear away dead brush, release seeds that require heat to germinate, and return nutrients back into the soil. Fire destroys, yes, but it also transforms.

As a Metal Zodiac animal, this metaphor has felt especially personal. Metal doesn't become refined by avoiding the fire. It becomes refined because of it. A blacksmith heats the metal until it glows, hammers it, folds it, and heats it again, slowly working out the impurities that would eventually cause the blade to fail. Those impurities aren't about beauty; they're about weakness. A sword doesn't break because it isn't shiny enough. It breaks where hidden flaws remain.

People aren't much different.

Perfectionism. People pleasing. Scarcity mindset. The belief that you're too much—or not enough. Overworking. Masking who you really are. None of those things necessarily break us overnight, but under enough pressure they become the places where we eventually crack. Fire doesn't create those weak points. It reveals them so we have the opportunity to forge something stronger.

The Five Elements also remind us that no two people experience the same year in exactly the same way.

If you're a Fire element (Horse or Snake), this year may have felt like someone finally gave you permission to shine. Maybe you've found your voice, started something bold, or stepped into leadership in a way you hadn't before. On the other hand, Fire has a tendency to burn hot. If you've been saying yes to everything or trying to keep every flame alive, this year may be reminding you that even a campfire needs tending. Fire isn't meant to consume endlessly.

If you're an Earth element (Ox, Dragon, Goat, or Dog), remember that fire eventually feeds the earth. After every wildfire comes ash, and ash eventually becomes fertile soil. You may have spent the first half of the year feeling exhausted or overwhelmed, but the second half naturally begins shifting toward nourishment. It doesn't surprise me that so many people are dreaming about gardens, cooking from scratch, slowing down, building community, and reconnecting with nature. Earth reminds us that rebuilding always follows burning.

If you're Metal (Monkey or Rooster), you may have spent the first half of this year feeling like your entire identity has been placed inside the forge. Careers have shifted. Priorities have changed. Old versions of yourself no longer fit. For me, this has looked like refining my business, discovering what kind of schedule actually supports my nervous system, continuing to understand my neurodivergent brain, and giving myself permission to unmask instead of constantly trying to fit someone else's expectations. Refinement isn't comfortable, but neither is staying trapped inside a version of yourself you've already outgrown.

If you're a Water element (Rat or Pig), perhaps this year has felt like evaporation. Fire naturally dries water. Maybe you've poured yourself into everyone else until there wasn't much left. Maybe you've felt emotionally, physically, or creatively drained. The beautiful thing about water is that it always returns. Rain comes. Rivers refill. Winter always follows summer. Don't mistake temporary exhaustion for permanent emptiness.

If you're a Wood element (Tiger or Rabbit), remember that wood feeds fire. Wood has been asked to make some difficult decisions this year because every project, every cause, every opportunity, and every request for your energy becomes another log on the fire. The question isn't whether you have enough wood. The question is which fires deserve it. Not every battle is yours to fight, and not every opportunity deserves your fuel.

One of the biggest lessons this year has taught me personally is that stability wasn't what I thought it was.

After the Dragon and Snake years, I imagined stability meant life would finally settle down. Instead, my husband and I have continued building a life in Nebraska, expanding out garden, figuring out what we actually want our careers and business to look like, grieving Bailey our dog we lost last year, creating workshops, building courses, and slowly putting down roots after years of constant change. Stability didn't arrive because life became quieter. It arrived because I became steadier within the noise.

I've also noticed some fascinating patterns among my clients this year. More people than ever are talking about wanting to move to the country, grow food, live off-grid, simplify their lives, or disappear somewhere quieter. I don't think most people are actually trying to run away. I think they're longing for agency. They're longing for community. They're longing for beauty. They're tired of feeling like life is happening to them instead of being something they're intentionally creating.

I've also had countless conversations with people who reached the goal they spent years chasing only to discover it didn't create the fulfillment they expected. They got solved some of their health issues. Lost the weight. Built the business. Retired. Then came the question no one prepared them for:

Now what?

When we spend years chasing goals, we sometimes forget to build a life we actually enjoy living after we reach them.

One image keeps coming back to me when I think about this year. Imagine someone treading water in the middle of a calm lake. From the shore they look perfectly fine. You only see their head above the surface. What you don't see is everything happening underneath. Their legs are kicking constantly just to keep them afloat. Some people have incredibly strong kicks and barely notice the effort. Others are using every ounce of energy they have simply to stay in the same place.

I think that's where many of us have been living.

Calm above the surface.

Chaos underneath.

If the first half of this Fire Horse year has been about deciding what needs to burn, I think the second half asks a different question.

What deserves to stay and be nurtured?

One of the quickest ways to lose our humanity is to stop doing anything outside of work. We weren't created simply to produce. We were meant to create, laugh, dance, tell stories, grow gardens, paint, appreciate beautiful music, gather around tables, and build community. Those things aren't distractions from life; they're the very things that make life worth living. Beauty isn't frivolous. Beauty is one of the ways we remember why we're rebuilding in the first place.

History suggests reform comes later. The Horse will keep running whether we like it or not, and eventually it will disappear over the horizon. When that happens, we'll inherit the landscape it left behind. We will decide what gets rebuilt, what gets planted, and what stories get carried into the next season. If you haven't already chosen a direction, there's a good chance one will eventually be chosen for you. So choose intentionally. Pick your cause. Find your people. Support your underdog. Tend the fire instead of letting it consume everything around you.

As we move toward Earth season, I find myself returning to one simple question:

What space has the fire created?

Because maybe the Fire Horse was never asking us simply to survive the flames. Maybe it was asking us to clear away the things that made us weaker so we could finally build something stronger, more beautiful, and more authentically our own.

And I think that's exactly where the next six months begin.