I remember when I first discovered astrology, it was an incredibly exciting time. The subject found me in my early teens, but its deeper meaning didn’t truly land until later. The psychological weight of this language hit me around age 22. That’s when I started buying more advanced books, the ones that went beyond basic Sun sign descriptions and into something far more fascinating. I’d say my true immersion into astrology began when Uranus transited my natal Sun as it moved through the 7th house of my chart (later twenties). It was a pivotal time. I bought my first computer, connected to the internet for the first time, and suddenly had access to a whole community of people—classic Uranus symbolism. I joined my first astrology forum (again, Uranus), and was opened up to an entirely new world where I could share and explore my interests with others—very much 7th house. In the years that followed, I built up a library of astrological materials—books, software, programs—almost all sourced through the internet. This transit wired astrology into my daily life.
Uranus is bringer of revolution and sudden insight, and it zapped into my life with an electric surge of “something different,” and in true Uranian fashion, it was the internet—a glowing oracle in a box—that became my portal. Suddenly, my identity (Sun) had to stretch, adapt, evolve. And Uranus didn’t just bring change, it flung open the shutters, shouted “wake up!” and handed me a keyboard. With the 7th house—the house of partnerships, mirrors, and meaningful others—my awakening came through connection. The forums, the conversations, the communion of kindred astrological spirits. In a way, Uranus gave me astrology as a way of being. A calling disguised as curiosity.
When one first falls into astrology, it’s like falling in love. There’s a rush, a fever, a breathless need to know everything. One book leads to ten, which leads to second-hand shops and obscure forums where usernames like “PlutoQueen78” and “SaturnRising” debate the meaning of a retrograde Mars in the 8th. And most of us begin by wanting our own charts interpreted. We don’t know how it works. But in many ways, that’s the point. Astrology exists in the gap between knowing and mystery. To demand a mechanistic explanation for its efficacy is to miss its essence.
It doesn’t need to pass the test of science, because it operates on a different frequency—the language of metaphor, intuition, and resonance. As above, so below. We are made of the same stardust. The sky is a mirror. And when we look into it, we see our own lives reflected back at us in symbols and cycles. To live astrologically isn’t to abandon reason but to expand it. To allow intuition and meaning to hold hands with logic. It’s to live in rhythm with something bigger, older, and infinitely more mysterious than ourselves.
Mentally, it felt like the world cracked open. The realm of ideas—and the design behind life—suddenly became exhilarating. It was an Alice in Wonderland moment: opening a door and stumbling into an entirely new dimension. I began looking to the universe to answer my deepest questions about life. I had no idea how far the rabbit hole would go—and honestly, I still don’t. But I haven’t stopped searching for the truth.
The doors of perception flung wide, and suddenly every conversation, every synchronicity, every odd planetary alignment was charged with potential meaning. Most people stop at the surface, content with a few platitudes. But astrology isn’t entertainment, it gives real answers. And even when the answers were riddles wrapped in symbols wrapped in retrogrades, I stayed in the pursuit. Suddenly life wasn’t just a series of events, but a universal conversation. Every encounter became a character, every setback a Saturn lesson, every pleasure a Venusian gift. Life became symbolic, a dance of archetypes playing out across the stage of awareness. Uranus shatters illusions. It peels back the curtain and reveals it all. There’s no returning to ignorance.
Astrology—she’s an old girl. Over 6,000 years and still turning heads. But astrology did go through many years of decline. To understand that decline is to understand the shifting tides of human consciousness. When reason took center stage in the Enlightenment and the scientific method became the new high priest, anything that hinted at mysticism was cast out. Astrology, once revered as a science, became an embarrassment. And there were darker times still. Persecution, censorship for those who dared suggest that the movements of the heavens might reflect the interior lives of men.
And then comes Alan Leo, he was a Victorian renegade, with a twinkle in his eye and a typewriter in his soul. He helped to revive astrology. He had a ragtag team of assistants churning out charts like factory workers, and his publications were humble—bits of paper bound together more like leaflets than texts—but this is the revolution. He didn’t wait for approval from academia or the church. He democratized astrology. He put the heavens back into the hands of the curious, the lost, the seekers, and the spiritually famished. Leo shifted astrology away from predictive fatalism and toward character analysis and self-awareness. He planted the seeds for modern psychological astrology, turning the chart from a sentence into a mirror. Suddenly astrology wasn’t about doom—it was about potential.
The beauty of his legacy is that it lives on in every beginner who prints out their birth chart in excitement, in every late-night rabbit hole of synastry and transits, in every astrologer sharing insights from behind a screen, to a global audience starved for meaning. While Alan Leo’s little stapled pamphlets may have seemed modest at the time, they were Trojan horses, sneaking knowledge back into the hearts and homes of people everywhere. And isn’t that the way of it?
In the 1960s and ’70s, astrology—long misunderstood—strutted back onto the scene, flower in her hair and Jung in her pocket. It was a transfiguration. Gone were the dour declarations of doom from the astrologers of old, the dire warnings of Saturn bringing misfortune or Mars declaring war on your love life. Instead, a new tone emerged, warm with introspection and ripe with potential: astrology as journey. Not fate, but freedom through understanding.
And what caused this metamorphosis? It was the great marriage of astrology and psychology—an alliance blessed by the likes of Carl Jung, who saw the archetypes in the heavens as mirrors of the psyche. Suddenly, the birth chart was no longer a map of what will happen, but a blueprint of who you could become. Astrology became a tool for consciousness.
This shift aligned perfectly with the spirit of the age. The 60s and 70s were about reconnection. To nature. To spirit. To self. People were no longer content with being cogs in the machine. They turned to yoga, meditation, LSD, Eastern philosophies—and astrology fit right in, offering a language for the inner revolution. What also shifted was the tone of the astrologer—from prophet to therapist. The astrologer became a guide, a mirror-holder, someone who could say: Here is your blueprint. These are your gifts. These are your challenges. How will you work with them? This was empowering, liberating even. It was about dancing with fate.
This evolution in astrology mirrored the human desire of the time: to know thyself. It was about healing, integrating, becoming whole. And so astrology was no longer left in the back of a bookshop. It became a tool for growth, transformation, and consciousness. And here we are now, still spinning on the same evolutionary wheel, still looking up, still seeking. And astrology, ever the shapeshifter, continues to evolve with us.