Why I broke with queer astrology

The first date I had after moving to San Francisco in my twenties was with a woman I met on my first night in town. She sat down with me in the corner of a gay bar and quickly guessed that I was a Virgo. I didn’t know much about myself or how to be a successful gay in the big city, but by then I knew at least what I needed to learn: the astrology.

Since then, I have educated myself comprehensively on the signs. I paid for lectures and synastry workshops. And although I have tended to make a slight self-deprecation about it at parties when it inevitably happens, in truth, I have found astrology fascinating and meaningful.

A few months ago, however, a marketing email for a popular new astrology app with a large queer audience crept into my inbox. He promised, among other things, that I would “always know why I was feeling the way I was feeling” if I paid to use it. And for the first time in a decade, I thought maybe it was time to take a break.

I didn’t know much about myself or how to be a successful gay in the big city, but by then I knew at least what I needed to learn: the astrology.

Millennials’ demand for astrological content has been on the rise for several years and the internet full of theories on why. Whatever the reason, capitalism has not slept on it. Co-Star, a popular astrology app, is backed by more than six million dollars, and investments continue to flow into the sector. And while queer people – especially queer women and non-binary people like me – aren’t more likely to believe in astrology than the rest of the population, we are significantly more likely to be “open to this”.

As Pride Month shifts into high gear and businesses scramble to turn my community’s feelings of otherness into profit, I felt compelled to examine why astrology is taking up the space it takes. occupies in queer culture, especially among young people and newcomers, with an eye on how open we should be towards her anyway.

For answers, I turned to Aida Manduley, a Boston-based queer therapist with 10 years of experience supporting mental health crises and six years of social work practice with individuals and couples / folx in intimate multi-partner relationships. Often, they say, LGBTQIA + people do not receive adequate care from therapists, “and I have so much compassion for people who pursue astrologers and spiritual people when therapists fail them.”

The ways that mental health professionals fail queer and trans people range from ignorance to outright rejection (which, in at least one US state, is in fact legal). I myself have experienced years of hurtful misunderstandings on the couch with professionals who mistook my gender dysphoria for garden variety anxiety, advising mindfulness practices that only heightened my awareness. of my suffering while failing to address the source.

A therapist once tried to normalize my confusion and discomfort during sex with men as a “common” experience for “young women”. With therapists leaping into dysphoria – which is not so common – and completely ignoring my gender identity (who is not female), is it any wonder that my community is looking for other ways to heal through it? astrology?

However, Manduley cautions that astrology can be detrimental to your mental health if followed to the exclusion of other therapeutic practices or used to justify harmful behavior. “Sometimes people look at characteristics that hurt other people because, oh it’s just my Aquarius going up, “they say.” I’m like – no, it’s the traumas of your childhood that make you an asshole. “

At least a study Manduley argues on this point, in which participants who received negative horoscopes were more likely to behave leniently afterwards, perhaps to preemptively compensate for the shitty days they were told they would have. .

Manduley says that overemphasizing predictive astrological phenomena like Mercury retrogrades can also trigger hypervigilance in people with anxiety. Without surprise, LGBTQIA + folx are likely to be disproportionately anxious, therefore potentially more likely to pay astrologers money to allay their fears.

Beyond the cost to our well-being, there is also the blow to our wallets. Annually, Americans spend about $ 2.2 billion on “mystical services.” And in general, homosexuals don’t have a lot of money. Black homosexuals and transsexuals have been hit hard economically during the pandemic, and LGBTQIA + people are more likely than the general population to live in poverty.

When it comes to paying for astrology, Manduley says to take a look at what’s on offer. Curious questions and conversations that help you navigate your spiritual and emotional growth? Useful. “But what if someone predicts? Classes.”

They also suggest considering the demographics of an astrologer. “If they are aimed at a small minority of people who have a lot of disposable income, it means that their [ability] asking good questions is limited. It should be noted here that, in most cases, anyone in the United States capable of spending money on a chart reading likely has some disposable income on their hands. In this country, almost all of astrology is on some level geared towards the wealthy.

But what about homosexuals who have come to the stars, like me, for a sense of belonging? I had hoped that astrology would help me feel “gay enough” to find the love I had moved to California. And while capitalism is good for everything, it offers quick fixes to feelings of inadequacy.

But as Manduley noted, there is nothing inherently cheerful about astrology. In fact, “when we start excluding people because they don’t fit our idea of ​​what homosexuality is, we are doing a disservice to inclusion in the community which might give us more political power.” “. It is this lack of power in the culture in general, after all, that has hurt my community so deeply that we have become attached to a practice that consistently promises its ability to heal us.

So I broke with astrology. Sometimes I still think about her, calculating aspects or wondering about the transits. Recently, I even found myself having what looked like an astrological epiphany during therapy. I had discussed my tendency to self-criticize when I deviate from a plan, and how this conflicts with another tendency to impulsiveness. Sun in Virgo, I thought, and Sagittarius Ascendant!

I was so wrapped up in the tragedy of my birth chart that I almost missed what my therapist was saying: that over-planning and impulsivity were behaviors born out of trauma, and if I wanted to address these issues, I should connect with what happened inside of me when I was younger, not with what the planets were doing outside of me when I was born.

For me, this work is best supported by a good therapist, antidepressants and testosterone injections. I’ll probably always have a fondness for astrology, but I’ve learned that when it comes to healing there are some things that just shouldn’t be left to the stars no matter how gay you are.