Several years ago, I walked away from therapy — not because I had healed, but because I no longer trusted myself to tell my story in a way that moved me forward. Somewhere inside, I believed my therapist possessed a secret map of my future, a hidden verdict about whether I should change careers or pack up my life and move. She never revealed it. And perhaps that silence unsettled me more than any diagnosis could have.
I have always been drawn to the idea that something beyond the ordinary might be watching over me — a universe that notices, that steadies me when I lose my balance. Yet I sometimes wonder if this longing for magic is less about faith and more about fatigue: a hope that I might skip the hardest parts of living and simply receive an answer.
So instead of paying for weekly therapy sessions, I began investing in astrology. Every few months, I sat across from an astrologer who asked for no background, no confessions, no explanations. She spoke in symbols and planets, and somehow described pieces of my life with uncanny accuracy. It felt like being seen without having to perform.
There was comfort in hearing myself translated into abstraction. When fear could be blamed on the cosmos, it felt less like a personal flaw. The stars offered an illusion of order, a soft reassurance that I wasn’t wandering alone. I could believe that my confusion belonged to a pattern, not a failure.
I soon learned I was not unusual. Surveys show that nearly a third of American adults consult horoscopes, Tarot, or fortune tellers at least once a year. Few admit to relying heavily on these practices, but many flirt with them for guidance. When my husband once asked whether a vent was placed too close to a window, I joked that I could draw a card for that.
Over the years, I explored energy healing, trance work, and eventually Tarot. These practices gave me a vocabulary that felt different from the language of therapy. Where psychology named wounds, Tarot offered symbols. Maybe what I once labeled as trauma was, in this new story, simply an aloof moon in Aquarius.
Logic arrives in many disguises. While some dismiss astrology as fantasy, history reminds us that ancient civilizations used the stars to plan crops, predict seasons, and guide leaders. Even today, financial advisers speak of “emotional markets,” and artificial intelligence answers our questions like a modern oracle. Perhaps wisdom has always depended on how well we ask.
“What is the safest plan?” I ask my adviser.
“Am I on the right path?” I ask the cards.
One weekend, I found myself enchanted by a crumbling old house that promised years of chaos and renovation. I asked a Tarot reader about it. She drew The Fool and Strength and spoke of trust, courage, and long stories. I laughed — I had become the fool, searching for meaning in bricks and beams. My husband, wrestling with faulty wiring, was less amused.
And if I’m honest, what I really wanted was someone to decide for me. The cards did not give me a command, but they gave me something better: a new question. Not “Should we buy this house?” but “Why do I want it?” The answer surprised me.
Because I wanted adventure.
Most people admit they turn to Tarot “just for fun,” yet even professionals quietly nod to the stars. A lawyer friend once told me waiting for Mercury to leave retrograde before signing a contract wasn’t foolish — it simply depended on which Mercury we meant. Fate, apparently, is personal.
Playing with destiny is tempting. If we can narrate it, maybe we can shape it. The cards become mirrors when the mind is tangled, reflecting back a version of ourselves we cannot yet name.
The self, after all, is fluid. Each day we wear a different role. Today, a king. Tomorrow, a devil. In therapy, I perfected one story. Tarot offered many. Each shuffle rearranged meaning, reminding me that no narrative is final.
Of course, these systems can flatter us. We see what we hope to see. But like a child playing with dolls, we know the game is not literal — it is symbolic, creative, and strangely revealing. Tarot does not speak of mothers or wounds; it speaks of archetypes. And perhaps that is enough.
The old house sold quickly. Letting it go felt like releasing a dream. What remained was the quiet thrill of realizing I was already where I needed to be. There was only one path, after all — the one beneath my feet.
And maybe that is the truest lesson in A Beginner’s Guide to Making Big Life Choices: not to search for perfect answers, but to trust the questions that lead us forward.
