2026: The Year the Moon Shows Up Thirteen Times

A Juxtaposed Tides Carolina Night Skies reflection

Most years move with a familiar rhythm.

The months turn, the seasons shift, and the Moon — faithful and unhurried — completes its cycle twelve times before the year gives way to the next.

But 2026 refuses to stay that tame, considering it is the year of the Fire Horse!

Because the Moon does not care how we divide time.

Its orbit takes roughly twenty-nine and a half days, while our calendars insist on thirty or thirty-one. That quiet mismatch adds up, and every few years the sky slips an extra full moon into the ledger. In 2026, it happens again. Thirteen full moons. One more moment of light than we usually expect.

It isn’t dramatic in the way comets or meteors are dramatic. There’s no single night where everything changes. Instead, it’s a slow unfolding — an extra breath in the year — and if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss what makes it special.

That is, in many ways, exactly the point.

When Time Breaks Its Own Rules

The idea of a “normal” year is something we invented. The Moon never agreed to it.

A lunar cycle doesn’t fit neatly into the boxes we built for ourselves, and every two to three years the discrepancy shows up as a surplus. In 2026, that surplus lands in May, giving us two full moons in the same month — one at the very beginning, and one just before June arrives.

The second of those two is what we call a Blue Moon. Not because it changes color, and not because it’s rare in the once-in-a-lifetime sense — but because it’s uncommon enough to remind us that celestial time and human time are not the same thing.

The sky keeps its own calendar.

A Year That Asks You to Slow Down

What makes 2026 particularly compelling isn’t just the extra full moon. It’s the way the entire year is threaded with moments that reward patience.

The year opens with the Wolf Moon in early January, rising close to Earth as a supermoon — large, bright, and impossible to ignore in the cold Carolina air. Winter moons have a clarity to them. The air is sharper. The horizon feels closer. Sound travels farther. Everything seems outlined more cleanly.

As winter gives way to spring, the Moon carries us through familiar names — Snow, Worm,

Pink — but March stands apart. Early that month, the full moon slips into Earth’s shadow and becomes a total lunar eclipse. For a while, the Moon will glow deep red, not because it’s changing, but because the only light reaching it has been filtered through our own atmosphere.

It’s a quiet lesson in connection: even in shadow, the Moon is lit by us.

By the time May arrives, spring has fully settled in. The Flower Moon opens the month, and then, without ceremony, the Blue Moon closes it. Two full moons in thirty-one days. If you’re not watching the calendar, it feels like nothing happened. If you are, it feels like a gift.

Summer brings a different kind of pacing. June’s Strawberry Moon appears slightly smaller than average — a micromoon — reminding us that not every full moon needs to dominate the sky to be worth seeing. July’s Buck Moon rises during the day, pale and understated.

August offers a deep partial lunar eclipse, dramatic but incomplete, as if the Moon is reminding us that not everything resolves cleanly.

Autumn returns with moons that feel heavier, lower, more deliberate. The Harvest Moon in September, the Hunter’s Moon in October. By November, another supermoon arrives, bright and commanding, followed closely by December’s Cold Moon — the closest full moon of the year, and the final one of this long, luminous cycle.

Thirteen times, the Moon reaches fullness. Thirteen chances to notice where you are when it happens.

Why This Matters (Even If You’re Not an “Astronomy Person”)

You don’t need to know orbital mechanics to feel the difference between a moon you passively notice and one you intentionally meet.

The Carolina night sky is generous. From barrier islands to mountain ridges, there are still places where moonlight feels like something you can step into rather than just look at. Years like 2026 invite us to reclaim that relationship — not through urgency, but through repetition.

The Moon doesn’t ask for a single perfect night. It asks you to return.

Over and over again.

Thirteen Full Moons, One Year, No Rush

If you photograph the sky, 2026 offers structure.

If you journal, it offers rhythm.

If you simply need reminders that time doesn’t always move the way it feels like it does, it offers perspective.

An extra full moon won’t change the world. But it might change the way you notice it.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

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