What you feel and where you were wounded are one weather inside you, the same tide rising. The instinct to nurture and the oldest hurt land on one degree of your chart and move as a single tide: you mother others from the exact lack you carry, you soothe from the spot in you that was never soothed. Your care is uncannily attuned because it remembers being uncared for. People feel held in your hands and rarely guess what it costs you. The danger is pouring all that tenderness outward to dress a wound that is quietly asking for the opposite, for you to turn the same gentle hands back on yourself for once.