This isn’t my first rodeo.

I’ve read my birth chart. I’ve cross-referenced it with three apps, two books, and that one TikTok girl with the aggressive eyebrows and a mic she definitely didn’t need. I know my rising sign better than I know the expiration date on the cream cheese in my fridge. This is not new information. But somehow, it still hits like a truck every time I see it spelled out in the cosmos: I am deeply and cosmically problematic.

Let’s start at the top.

Sagittarius sun. Leo rising. Aquarius moon.

Tell me you’re emotionally unhinged without telling me you’re emotionally unhinged.

My sun in Sagittarius means I crave freedom, adventure, and deep meaning—but only if I don’t have to follow through on the paperwork. I want to feel everything. Know everything. Leave whenever. I believe in growth, but preferably somewhere with good lighting and espresso. Every decision I make is either a spontaneous leap of faith or a spiritual tantrum disguised as “following my intuition.”

Leo rising is the main character placement. I walk into rooms like there’s a spotlight on me—even when I’m spiraling. Especially when I’m spiraling. This is why I cry with style. Why my emotional support cat is named Karma. Why I have a playlist called “Emotional Climax in a Rainstorm” and yes, it’s color-coded.

Then there’s the real chaos: Aquarius moon.

I want connection but on my terms. I crave intimacy, but I also low-key judge myself for needing it. My love language is disappearing for three days and then texting “I just thought of something funny you said in August.” My moon sign is why I’ve drafted entire friendship break-up speeches that I’ll never send and why I get emotionally invested in niche podcasts I’ll never finish.

And it doesn’t stop there.

My Mercury and Venus are in Sagittarius too, which basically means I flirt by giving unsolicited book recommendations and asking someone if they’ve ever cried in a museum. I overexplain when I should shut up and I ghost when I should say how I feel. It’s not a communication style—it’s a scavenger hunt for emotional clues I forgot I left.

Mars in Sagittarius means I get irrationally angry when someone tells me what to do, especially if they’re right. My gut response to confrontation is “run or monologue.” Nothing in between.

And don’t get me started on my Aquarius Saturn. She’s been haunting me since my mid-twenties. That placement is like a cosmic life coach who’s mean, emotionally distant, and always right. Saturn in Aquarius demands I stop being vague and flaky and actually show up—for others, for myself, for life. It’s rude.

Meanwhile, Jupiter and Pluto in Scorpio are in the background plotting my rebirth like I’m on season six of my own internal drama series.

So yeah, I read my birth chart again. Not because I needed answers—because I needed someone to blame.

I don’t fear Mercury retrograde. I schedule around it. I check transits like some people check the weather. My bookmarks tab includes three synastry calculators and a spreadsheet of people’s birth times that I definitely didn’t ask for politely. Astrology isn’t a hobby. It’s a coping mechanism with personality.

So if I seem distant today?
It’s probably my moon.
If I overshare tomorrow?
That’s my Mercury.
And if I spend the weekend emotionally spiral-ordering new crystals and telling my cat my secrets, well… that’s just my chart doing what it does best.

Anyway. Blame Aquarius.