I was recently venting a frustration to an acquaintance who abruptly said, “What’s your star sign?”
“Pisces,” I replied, cautiously. She gave a knowing nod. “Ahh, yes. Typical water sign. You’re struggling to adapt because Neptune is doing doughnuts around Saturn right now.”
According to her, I just needed the right energy – maybe some smoky quartz would bring my mojo back. I was taken aback by this non-consensual diagnosis. Someone I barely knew had assessed me based on the cosmic vibes of my birth month. I didn’t know whether to thank her, offer her 50 bucks or tell her where she could shove her crystals.
Growing up Pentecostal Christian, we were warned of the dangers of being overly zealous. Don’t blurt out, “Do you know where you’re going when you die?” when someone asks what you’re up to on the weekend. Mild turn-off is an understatement.
And yet, here we are in 2026 in this psychedelic wave of star-sign spiritualism where it’s perfectly acceptable to accuse someone of being toxic because they’re a Sagittarius and the moon is in retrograde (although that’s cosmically impossible, apparently).
As a Pisces, prone to melancholy, indecision and writing opinion pieces no one asked for, you’d think I’d float along with this current trend like the fish I am. Yet, I can’t help wonder why we’re so obsessed with astrology in an era when traditional religion has been elbowed out the back door.
The vacuum it’s created has well and truly been filled: there are dating apps such as Astro Cupid that match you with your “star sign soul mates”, AI-powered apps like Co–Star that boast “hyper-personalised, real-time horoscopes”, and even occasional provocateur Clementine Ford has jumped on the bandwagon, offering collective tarot readings on her Substack (paid subscribers, of course).
“People love to talk about and hear about themselves, which works very well for astrology,” Richard Saunders, chief investigator at Australian Skeptics, told this masthead. This explains why there’s an army of influencers moonlighting as astrologers on TikTok, where people can’t stop talking about themselves. The “spiritual but not religious” crowd have become the new evangelists, though with better merch in a global industry predicted to be worth $32.5 billion by 2032.
Look, I totally understand the impulse to believe in something bigger than yourself – that there’s a discernible pattern to the universal chaos. It’s better than having an existential crisis (though the existential crisis doesn’t yet come with a tiered subscription model).
But the thing about astrology that really gets my cosmic goat is all the relentless navel-gazing – the intense focus on the self: my personality, my feelings, my future. Sure, it might get you out of a rut for a bit, but there’s a ridiculous amount of research, not to mention the foundation of most major world religions, that happiness looks like an outward posture – considering others before yourself. “Do unto others as you would have them do to you.” “Love your neighbour as yourself.” Repeat ad infinitum.
Or as Viktor Frankl wrote, quoting philosopher Soren Kierkegaard: “The door to happiness opens outwards.”
Not to mention the unspoken religious code: don’t shove your beliefs down other people’s throats.
I appreciate the enthusiasm, really I do. But take it from me, a former zealot who would recreationally ask people where they were spending eternity (smoking or non-smoking!?): go easy on the evangelism.
We’re not all champing at the bit to find out that Uranus is making a transit through your second house or whatever. People find their own way, spiritually and in words I might borrow from you, stargazers: trust the universe. Take your head out of Uranus and go have a cuppa with your neighbours – or whatever it is people used to do. If all else fails, an existential crisis is still cheaper.
Cherie Gilmour is a freelance writer.
