In early 2017, I became completely fixated on the movements of Jupiter. The planet was hurtling towards my sign, Libra, which, in astrology terms, meant that I would feel the influence of the “luckiest” planet in the sky for as long as it remained in that position (a year). And I really did feel lucky that year. I found friends and lovers easily. I met the person I am now engaged to. Every day I woke up curious and excited, the bright, expansive presence of Jupiter floating right above me like a 61.42bn km² talisman. Thank you Jupiter, I remember thinking to myself. You are my favourite planet in space.
My astrology obsession may have reached new levels that year, but it’s always been there. The instant I was born, at 6.36am, my mum wrote down the time so that I’d have an accurate birth chart (an insight into my character based on the alignment of the planets at my time of birth). Growing up, my grandma often read our tarot, the cards spread out on her soft, flowery bed, a vehicle for an unspoken closeness. And I had my own private relationship with astrology, too. Potential relationships would be vetted via star signs (I date Sagittariuses, not Capricorns). Life choices would be explained by the planets (no one goes out during Cancer season). And my conception of myself became hugely shaped by my own astrological makeup (a double Libra: charming when necessary, persuasive, more than a little flaky). In later years, I’d find myself scanning horoscope websites and checking astrology apps such as Co-Star and The Pattern daily.
