The first time I had my birth chart read, everything I thought I knew about my astrology changed.  A couple of months ago, I consulted Bruxa, a magical drag king and witch, who informed me during my reading that Pisces was the dominant sign in my chart. I remember asking, “Are you sure?” as if I was in any position to question her great expertise of the universe. She was dead serious, and with my chart in hand, she pointed out the five Pisces placements throughout. 
 

Until that moment, being a double Gemini (rising and sun) was my entire personality. Despite all the slander directed toward my sign, I proudly wore its archetypes of being talkative and passionate. Being the loudest, funniest, and most interesting person in any room I walked into and never being able to make a decision was my brand.

It came as such a shock to me that Pisces, a sign that didn’t resonate with me at all — and one I knew very little about — was such a strong force in my astrological makeup. It just didn’t feel true. Until Bruxa told me about Neptune — the big, blue planet that rules the sign of Pisces and, therefore, much of my chart. 

Neptune is a planet defined by a vagueness. It can represent ambiguity in many senses. Bruxa described it as an in-between, a neither-here-nor-there type of energy, especially when it comes to gender. 

The freedom and fluidity she was describing felt painfully familiar but distant enough to yearn for. I’m non-binary, and while it was deeply affirming to learn about this side of my chart, I couldn’t help but wonder how different my life would be if I’d heard Bruxa’s words years ago when I first began questioning my gender. 

Like a lot of kids, I experimented with different aesthetics and phases growing up (all-black emo, dresses over jeans, hippie-dippy tie-dye, etc). But, for me, that relationship with appearance was a tumultuous one — and one that defines my history with gender. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see someone that looks masculine nor feminine. I just see myself. When people ask if I lean more toward one end of the gender spectrum, if I feel more like a boy or a girl, the only thing I can ever really offer as an answer is that I’m just … me. 

Growing up nonbinary, it feels like nothing fits you. Your clothes could be the right size and tailored to your body but they don’t feel like “you” — whatever that even means. My mom always pressured me to look extremely feminine and “girly” growing up. She was always excited to have a daughter that she could dress up and show off like a doll in her image. From a young age, she told me that I had to look lady-like. She even taught me how to do my eyeliner when I was 12 so I would look “prettier” when I went to school. I felt trapped in her vision of what I was supposed to look like. Every blouse and dress she picked out for me felt like an itchy costume that made me want to climb out of my own skin. I was never happy with how I looked. In the mirror, I didn’t see myself but I could never articulate that because “nonbinary” wasn’t a part of my vocabulary. I had no idea the power that two very familiar words — “they” and “them” — could have to close the distance I felt between my identity and my reflection. 

One thing that always did feel like me was my name: Raven. I like to think that Neptune’s androgynous influence started here. My dad picked the name out for me because he thought it was unique and different from most names. Because I was his first and only child, he wanted everyone to know how special I was. (He’s also a total nerd and likes the Teen Titan character Raven, who’s actually a witch.) I’ve always worn my name proudly, writing it excitedly at the top of my homework assignments, in my notebooks, and on my shirt tags. It wasn’t until I met a fellow Raven in high school — a guy Raven — that I learned my name was androgynous. In that moment, it felt like Ravens around the world shared a special superpower that made us mysterious and interesting. I still think that today. 

At 13, I really began to experiment with my gender expression. I went to a private school that required uniforms (I chose the one with pants) so I figured the best way to stand out was by getting a wild haircut. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted but I knew it had to be daring and rebellious. I was finally a teenager, after all. I secretly made the appointment with my hairdresser, Lauren, and when she asked what I wanted, I showed her photos of Ruby Rose’s pixie cut that I’d saved from Pinterest. Without another word, Lauren mercilessly chopped off my long, waist-length hair that I’d spent years growing out. My mom was so livid when I came home that she didn’t talk to me for an entire week. But I didn’t care. I may have undone her life’s work in one hour, but I woke up every day after excited to look in the mirror — and that made it all worth it. 

College came and spurred me even further into a gender identity crisis, for better or for worse. Without my parents or a school uniform, fashion became the vehicle for discovering who I was. Going to school in L.A., I was lucky enough to meet other queer people who were much more comfortable with their gender (or lack thereof). Think alt kids who sport neon-dyed buzzcuts, Victorian-style corsets, and platform boots on their way to their 8am classes. Fabulous creatures who draw on their faces with eyeshadow and eyeliner and strut around campus like a piece of walking art the way only queer kids can. 

Seeing my new friends be unapologetically themselves, I started finding an outlet in clothes. The campus became my runway to test out different, androgynous looks. I started wearing baggy shirts, polos, sweaters, button-ups — basically anything that made my body disappear underneath it. At thrift stores, I always made a beeline for the men’s section looking for blazers and ties to wear to formals or job interviews. My most prized possession from these days is this dark blue, fake Gucci tracksuit that’s at least three sizes too big. Huge Billie Eilish vibes.

My found family in college gave me the space I needed to grow through my ever-evolving relationship with my gender (come to think of it, most of my genderqueer friends have Pisces somewhere in their chart — maybe we’ve all been in tune with Neptunian energy without knowing it). My queer siblings were the ones who told me that I didn’t need short hair or baggy clothes to be non-binary. Androgyny is wonderful and empowering, but I didn’t have to look androgynous to prove my non-binary-ness. If I told them I was non-binary, I was. 

From then on, the clothes I searched for in stores stopped being defined by labels like “men’s” or “women’s” and became more about what I felt truly beautiful in. Dresses, skirts, and other traditionally feminine things made their way back into my wardrobe and they got along just fine with my suits and ties. I could see myself better in the mirror when I finally realized that clothes don’t have a gender. At least, not when I wear them. 

I remember the fear I felt when I came out to my friends and told them I wanted to go by they/them pronouns. The fear was short-lived as each of them accepted the request without question. I’ll never forget the warmth in my chest when someone referred to me as “they” in a conversation for the first time. I can only describe it as feeling whole. 

Neptune’s influence over me and my sphere is a constant reminder that I’m not something to be “figured out.” I am allowed to simply exist in a way that makes sense to me. And I’m entering Pisces season honoring the warmth I feel in the in-between.