Choosing to Be Here: My Journey to Astrology

As a child I was utterly convinced that magic was real. It wasn’t the kind of magic you read about in fairy tales but something subtler—a quiet hum within me, and in the background of existence. A feeling that there was more to life than meets the eye. It was as if I could sense an invisible thread weaving everything together, though I could never quite grasp it.

But as I grew older, that quiet awareness faded. The world told me to focus on what was real, practical, and measurable. That dreamy child wasn’t encouraged to grow into a dreamy adult, and I learned to bury my intuition beneath the expectations of the “real world.”

I found myself drifting, unsure of my place in the world. The more I tried to fit in, the more I felt out of sync with myself. Eventually, the weight of it all pushed me to leave home and seek something—anything—on the other side of the horizon. New adventures in distant lands called to me, promising escape and renewal. So I followed.

“Two things can be true at once: You can be living a life that looks like a dream from the outside—an adventure in technicolor—while inside, you feel unbalanced, directionless, and adrift. This duality is something we rarely talk about but often experience.”

My time abroad was the medicine I didn’t know I needed. It felt like stepping into a world alive with possibility. There were late-night adventures under starry skies, laughter that felt like music, and a sense of freedom that made every moment shimmer with magic. It was a song I wanted to keep playing on repeat. But life, as it often does, has a way of catching up with you when you dance too close to the Sun—where the brightness of the stars blinds you to the darkness waiting just beyond.

In chasing the thrill of the present moment, I didn’t realise how close I was treading to the edge. Hedonism has a way of pulling you in, and before I knew it, I was losing my grip on the very magic I’d sought to find. And yet, it was at my lowest that I stumbled onto the path that would lead me back to myself—and to astrology.

Two things can be true at once: You can be living a life that looks like a dream from the outside—an adventure in technicolor—while inside, you feel unbalanced, directionless, and adrift. This duality is something we rarely talk about but often experience.

My travels introduced me to all manner of spiritual experiences and fascinating people. Each encounter opened my mind further to the magic I had always known was there, the kind of magic I had sensed as a child. 

Yet, despite all this spiritual exposure, I didn’t apply much of it to my actual life. I lived like a creature of the night, intoxicated by connection—whether with strangers or friends—and guided by impulses like social acceptance, lust, and the endless chase for excitement.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve reached a peak in life, when the joy feels infinite, the ground begins to shift beneath your feet.”

In my defense, I was young, I was free, and I have no regrets about that time. Those years were incredible in so many ways, and taught me lessons I needed to learn about life. But growth often comes at a cost, and for me, that cost was steep.

My carefree lifestyle was unsustainable, though I was slow to admit it. The joy I had felt so deeply was soon replaced by sadness, and that sadness quietly grew into depression. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve reached a peak in life, when the joy feels infinite, the ground begins to shift beneath your feet.

Coming home was a shock—a cold, hard return to “normal” life. The deep insecurities I had been running from stared me straight in the face, and no amount of distraction could hide them. Family, though well-meaning, only added to the pressure, their concern inadvertently deepening my sense of failure. I felt like I was unraveling, lost in a low point I couldn’t even name.

One day, I broke down in tears to my mother. I couldn’t articulate what I was feeling—just an overwhelming weight pressing down on me and a sense of foreboding. She looked at me with such deep concern in her eyes. I remember it so clearly, because only a few weeks later, she passed away. It was sudden. It was devastating. And I was completely unprepared to face it, emotionally or spiritually.

The grief left me hollow. I felt estranged from myself, as though I no longer recognised the person I was. I self-medicated to numb the pain, but it only deepened my isolation. I lived in a constant state of anxiety, fearful of everything. It took almost a year for the full weight of my loss to catch up with me. This, I now understand, was my Dark Night of the Soul. My rock bottom. The breaking point I needed to reach in order for real change to begin.

“I stripped everything back. Simplified my life. I set out, with trembling steps, to find the magic again.”

I call this my “season of sacred solitude.” It was a time of deep introspection, a retreat into myself. I immersed myself in spiritual teachings, spent hours in meditation, and practiced being present with my emotions, however difficult they were. It was less an escape and more a homecoming—to myself.

This was the first time in my life that I made the conscious decision to be here. To live life—not just to exist, but to truly be alive. I chose courage over fear, presence over resentment. I chose me. And that choice, as simple as it sounds, changed everything.

At the heart of this transformation, I fell into astrology—not as a distraction, but as a doorway. The more I reflected on the planetary transits I had recently gone through, the more fascinated I became. Astrology felt like a language for all the things I couldn’t put into words—a map for the experiences that had shaped me. I dove in, taking course after course, devouring books, and slowly piecing together the patterns of the stars and how they reflected the patterns in my life. At the time, it was just a hobby, but looking back, I can see that it was the first thread of something much bigger.

Of course, this wasn’t the “final chapter” of my story—far from it. This was phase one of what seems to be an endless evolution. Life continued to throw its curveballs, and I continued to have my share of struggles. But each time, I applied what I’d learned, staying as grounded as I could, honoring where I was, and resisting the urge to compare my path to anyone else’s. 

Simplicity became my mantra. I stripped away everything unnecessary and trusted that, when the time was right, I would feel the winds change. And they did. A new opportunity came just as I felt ready for more. I accepted a job promotion that felt completely out of character for me—a bold challenge to test myself and see what I was truly capable of. For a while, it was good. I surprised myself with my success, and for a time, I felt unstoppable. But then, inevitably, I burned out.

“When we’re suffering, there’s so much power in getting curious about it.”

Burnout isn’t just exhaustion; it’s like losing access to the spark that keeps you going. I had just enough energy to get through the workday, but outside of that, my life was falling apart. My anxiety spiraled out of control, and I felt like I was back at square one. But here’s where the magic of self-reflection comes in: when we’re suffering, there’s so much power in getting curious about it!

It was during this difficult chapter that I had a major, life-changing discovery: my depression, anxiety, breakdowns, and burnout weren’t just these abstract things I had suffered with all my adult life for no apparent reason. They had a root, a pattern—a deeper explanation. I was diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). This revelation was nothing short of earth-shattering. Suddenly, so much of my life made sense: my choices, my sensitivities, my struggles to connect with the world in the “expected” ways. It was like being handed the missing piece of a puzzle I’d been trying to solve for as long as I could remember.

Most of all, this diagnosis taught me the importance of honoring myself and my needs. It showed me that advocating for myself wasn’t selfish—it was necessary. So much of the suffering I had endured boiled down to not being understood, and more importantly, not understanding myself. But now, I have the tools to change that.

This realisation became the catalyst for something bigger. It was another reminder that life has a way of surprising you, even when you think you’ve hit your limit. It was yet another major turning point, guiding me closer to the person I am still becoming.

Not long after my diagnosis, I made a decision that once would have felt impossible—I quit my job. For the first time, I chose to honor who I truly am and devote myself fully to what has always called to me: astrology.

Astrology, for me, is an extension of that self-discovery. It’s a way of understanding the chaos, finding patterns in the disorder, and remembering that we are all connected to something far greater than ourselves. And it’s my passion to help others see themselves more clearly through astrology, just as I have learned to see myself. My journey isn’t over—it never will be—but I am here, now, fully present, and ready for whatever comes next.