When I started this column several months ago, I asked you to run away into the stars with me. I hope you have marveled at what you found alongside me. I hope you have fallen in love with yourself through astrology’s external view of yourself. I hope you will continue to love and cherish yourself.
There’s a center of gravity between the extreme ends of the social interaction spectrum: outgoing, enthusiastic Jupiter, and aloof, skeptical Saturn. It’s different for everyone, but you’ll find it because it all comes from you, written in the stars from your birth. Take it easy. Friendships at Harvard are hard to navigate. But you have the map to the treasure right there, inside of you.
You will suffer sucky breakups. But through all of them, you remain worthy of love — no matter how complicated your Venus situation is. As the stars spin in the sky, eventually, someone is born under a configuration that clicks with your own Venus. By pure number-crunching alone, there is someone out there for you.
Maybe it’s midterms season or Mercury in retrograde that makes everything feel bad right now. But it will pass. It always passes. Mercury will reroute, and everything will be okay again.
Letters sent by mail are outdated, yes. But they are snapshots of time, the culmination of a friend’s life between the day they mailed their last letter and the moment they sat down to write this new one.
In your four years of college commitments, chase joy. In your vision of the future as extrapolated from your life now, chase joy. You can set yourself up for daily happiness, and it starts with dropping that activity you always wish you could skip.
Understanding yourself and your self-improvement journey as astrology does help you approach self-improvement with kindness, instead of harsh criticism and reproach of the past. Yes, you were once more awkward or less smart, your Moon overdeveloped and crowding out any sight of a Rising. But that was still you, and there’s nothing wrong with how you used to be.
Look up into the night sky. Even if one star is in the wrong place, there are still millions more that might tell you something meaningful about yourself. Suspend your disbelief. Ignore the over-rational voice in your mind that throws in the towel at the first inconsistency. And run away into the stars with me, into the lovely starry night of you.
So while in our minds, Epstein’s election is merely a product of regular turnover of chaplains and other Harvard staff, we wake up to headlines morphing the new leadership of an organization into the latest wedge in our nation’s cultural war.
As much as we claim to be above such superficiality, people will always be making snap judgments on each other based on appearances. Someone somewhere will always hate what you have on right now. If people everywhere are always judging your look in different directions, why do you care what they think? You can’t control how other people interpret your fits. You can only control how you feel in them.
Being vocally, unabashedly, look-at-me-once-and-it’s-so-obvious queer is important to me. (Once a girl at a party asked me if I was, verbatim, “not straight,” and I rode that elation for a solid week afterward). It’s my way of saying I am here and I have gone through so much strife, internal and external, to be here and so conspicuously queer in front of you, and I’ll do it again.
The concept of the dead viscerally disturbs me. I speed-walk past flowers on bridges and gated graveyards while others stop to pay their respects. When I think of the dead, I see myself among them. I would trade my life for my Asian American siblings, if given the chance. There are so many people who could do more with a life than I. But I am never given the chance. I keep living. It’s not fair.
No matter how coming out goes, it’s a big deal and not something to be taken lightly. It takes so much bravery to come out. To say to the world or maybe just the people you care about that this is who I am and how I love when large swathes of the world will hate you for that alone. If someone gathers the courage and strength to come out to you, they do not deserve to be met with skepticism. It could not have been easy for them to come to terms with their own identity, to war within themself over who to tell and how, and to finally say those words to you.
If it hasn’t been made strikingly obvious yet, I am a hopeless romantic without much to back it up with. I am writing a series of love letters for the days leading up to Valentine’s Day in one of the saddest, most distant years for love. I am in a long-term long-distance relationship. Maybe I’m just naive, but I believe in love over everything threatening to pull it apart.
I think of the people I would walk to, no matter the distance, just to be together with them in the flesh, physically tangible, breathing the same air. How, at the end of the world, if all the trains and buses and planes in the world shut down and there was no easy way to reach anyone, I would run to see some people for the last time. To hold their hands and look at them in the eyes as we say goodbye.