Long before we invented the clock, the calendar, or the telescope, we had the sky. An immutable tapestry of lights spinning above our heads, dictating the passage of the seasons, the arrival of harvests, and the tide of life. From the earliest caves, our eyes have been willing prisoners of that spectacle, seeking not only beauty, but meaning. What are we in this immensity? Is there a message, a cosmic melody that governs our destinies? From this deep need for orientation arose the first star maps and the earliest interpretations of cosmic will. Among these ancestral quests, few have been as persistent and seductive over the millennia as astrology.
Today, armed with the formidable lens of science —that tool of wonder and discovery that has allowed us to understand galaxies and genes— we know with overwhelming clarity that astrology is neither a reliable map of the universe nor of our lives. There exists not a strand of verifiable causal evidence, no robust empirical correlation between the position of the stars at the moment of our birth and the intricate web of our decisions, desires, or the sorrows that assail us. The most rigorous studies, from Shawn Carlson’s pioneering research in Nature to Geoffrey Dean’s tireless meta-analyses, have shown time and again that its predictive power does not surpass mere chance. The majestic dance of the planets, the vastness of distant constellations, does not write a single comma in the script of our personal fate.
And yet, in a paradoxical turn, millions of people continue to cling to its designs. We are talking about sensitive, rational, often cultured individuals. They not only believe; they organize around it, consult astrologers, forward horoscopes with fervor, seek natal charts as if they were secret blueprints of their souls. Or worse still, those who “don’t fully believe, but just in case,” or because “there must be something,” or simply because “it resonates with me.” This essay does not seek easy mockery or simplistic condemnation. Its true purpose is far more ambitious: to understand why a narrative so devoid of factual truth exerts such a profound power over the human psyche. And, at the same time, to say with the firmness and clarity so often avoided so as not to offend: astrology is not an alternative form of knowledge.
It is a symbolic and emotionally powerful construction, but not a fundamental truth about the world.
1. Cosmic comfort and the illusion of personal truth.
Astrology, in its essence, offers something that science, in its relentless pursuit of truth, often cannot immediately provide: an enveloping narrative, an intimate account of who we are. It whispers who we might be, what challenges await us, whom we are destined to love. It gives us a framework, a personal map in a universe that often feels vast and silent. And in an age defined by uncertainty and anxiety, where the future seems more nebulous than ever, that emotional map can be a comforting balm for the spirit. But however consoling it may be, its ability to soothe the soul does not make it a fact.
This is where one of the pillars of human psychology comes into play: the Forer effect, also known as the Barnum effect, masterfully demonstrated by Bertram Forer in 1949. This phenomenon reveals a fundamental truth: almost any personality description, no matter how vague and general, will seem astonishingly accurate if we believe it was crafted specifically for us. Think of a horoscope that states: “You have great potential, but sometimes you doubt yourself and that holds you back.” Millions of people across the planet will feel reflected. Why? Not because the stars dictate it, but because doubt and potential are universal struggles inherent to the human condition. Astrology “hits the mark” not because it predicts, but because it gives us a language through which we project our own internal truths. The message, paradoxically, emerges from within ourselves, though it seems to come from the distant orbit of Mars. It is a projection, not a revelation.
Let us imagine, to clarify, that every time a rooster crows at dawn, the sun rises. Does that mean the rooster’s crow causes the sunrise? No. These are two events that coincide in time, a rooster crowing and the sun rising over the horizon, but one does not cause the other. The relationship between the position of the stars and our lives is similar: there may be anecdotal coincidences, moments when a horoscope seems to “match” our day. But science has found no mechanism that causally connects them, no known force (gravitational, electromagnetic, or of any other kind) that links a distant planet to our moods or decisions. To search there for our destiny would be as fruitless as attributing the splendor of dawn to the simple and repetitive crow of a rooster.
2. The symbolic refuge against existential chaos.
From a perspective encompassing semiology, anthropology, and depth psychology, astrology fulfills clear and powerful psychological and cultural functions. It offers us identity, a way to define ourselves beyond the merely biological; it gives us belonging, an invisible bond with others who share our “sign” or “ascendant”; and it provides us with a common language to express our internal complexities. Saying “I’m a Cancer with Libra rising” is a way of narrating ourselves, of inserting our individuality into a recognizable archetype. As in ancient myths, in primordial religions, in the mystery of the tarot or the epic of cinema, human beings create stories, great and small, to survive the apparent chaos of the universe and the soul. They are narrative scaffolds that give shape to the formless.
But here lies a crucial distinction, one that is often dangerously blurred: there is a vast difference between a story we know to be fiction and one we defend as tangible reality. We immerse ourselves in Homeric epics, are moved by the odyssey of a fictional character, are brought to tears by the foundational myths of cultures. These experiences have a profound symbolic and emotional effect on us, they enrich our inner lives. But we wouldn’t dream of demanding NASA send a probe to study Wakanda or investigate the factual truth of the Olympian gods. Why, then, do we tolerate —even celebrate— astrology being presented and defended in public discourse as a legitimate form of knowledge? Why are astrologers invited onto television programs, granted the same authority as if they were “soul scientists,” with the grave implication that their “knowledge” is on par with chemistry or physics?
3. When telling the truth becomes a cultural indelicacy.
Today, we find ourselves at a curious cultural crossroads, one where directly confronting beliefs —especially those that offer comfort— is perceived as an act of aggression, a lack of manners, or worse, a sign of arrogance. Saying “astrology is false” has become a personal attack, a judgment on someone’s identity.
Science communicators who have dedicated their lives to the search and dissemination of truth, figures like Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson, who with eloquence and cosmic wonder have illuminated generations, have been criticized for their skepticism. To them are added contemporary voices facing the same resistance, such as Phil Plait, the “Bad Astronomer,” who through his influential blog and books has dismantled pseudosciences with rigor and humor, often being labeled a “killjoy” for insisting on facts. On the other end of the spectrum, we find Javier Santaolalla, the charismatic Spanish physicist and popular science communicator (and YouTuber), who reaches millions of Spanish speakers through digital platforms to explain the wonders of science, the universe, and even the history and philosophy of science with clarity and warmth —and who is likewise compelled to debunk myths and fallacies, facing the same misunderstanding and sometimes the anger of those who prefer fantasy over evidence. Both Plait and Santaolalla represent two ends of the same thread: the tireless effort to bring the light of knowledge to vast and diverse audiences, and the uncomfortable price paid for simply stating the obvious: that the planets do not conspire to write the script of our destiny or dictate our personality traits.
The root of this resistance is twofold and deeply revealing. On one hand, we have cultivated a dangerous confusion between factual truth and emotional validity. If something moves us, makes us feel good, resonates with our inner experience, we assume it must be true —or at least “true for me.” On the other hand, we have relativized the very concept of knowledge to the point of the absurd declaration: “it’s true for me,” as if gravity would cease to exist if one decided not to believe in it, or as if truth were defined by a popularity poll. Gravity does not need our faith to exist; water boils at one hundred degrees Celsius with equal indifference to our opinions.
And this confusion is not innocuous. What happens when this “truth for me” seeps into the spheres of power and decision-making that affect millions? It is no minor concern —it is a foundational crack in rational thought. Consider, for example, persistent reports about Javier Milei, the current president of Argentina, who has been openly associated with the use of esoteric advisors and practices, especially through his sister and chief strategist, Karina Milei. Multiple large-scale journalistic sources have detailed how tarot, communication with “channeled” beings or animals supposedly influence governmental decisions and the selection of officials. This is not a trivial detail in someone’s private life; it is the possible introduction of pseudoscience into the heart of governance. The dividing line is clear and fundamental: if a decision impacting public policy, national economies, or international relations is based on reading a natal chart or a channeled message, instead of verifiable data, expert analysis, economic evidence, or scientific rigor, then we are facing a danger to society. This is not about disqualifying anyone’s personal beliefs, but about demanding that decisions affecting all of us be made based on the best available evidence —not on faith in the unprovable.
Behind this phenomenon lies something deeper and more troubling: a contemporary form of soft yet insidious anti-intellectualism. The scientist who speaks with the certainty granted by evidence is distrusted, while the mystic who speaks with the conviction of faith, or the influencer who proclaims baseless certainties, is celebrated. Beware! It is in the space where honest criticism becomes a faux pas and empty praise is elevated to dogma that the ground softens and is fertilized for the unchecked growth of pseudosciences. In a society that values information, truth and rigor are a shield. The promotion of narratives without empirical basis diverts not only attention but also resources (time, money, energy) from real solutions to pressing problems, whether personal or collective. It fosters a mindset where evidence is optional, which hampers our ability to address complex challenges like climate change, global pandemics, or economic crises, and erodes trust in the institutions of knowledge that have cost us so much to build.
4. Science: No promises of comfort, but the grace of revisable truth.
Unlike astrology, which clings to its immutable tenets, science offers no immediate comfort nor easy answers. Instead, it offers something infinitely more valuable: a truth in constant evolution, a revisable and self-correcting truth. Astrology, by its very nature, cannot be falsified, replicated, or measured by instruments of empirical rigor. It does not predict with greater accuracy than chance. It does not correct its historical errors nor improve its accuracy over time. Its predictive failures are not met with honest revision but with new interpretations, with esoteric excuses: “If that didn’t come true, it’s because Mercury was in retrograde,” or “your ascendant mitigated it.” There is no room for the recognition of error, and it is precisely that inability to self-correct that expels it from the realm of factual knowledge.
Science, by contrast, is based on error, on testing, on constant revision, and on the audacity to correct what it once held as true. It is imperfect, yes, because it is a human enterprise, but it moves, it advances, it learns from its failures. Science has given us medicines that save millions of lives, systems that predict the path of hurricanes, telescopes capable of capturing the light of galaxies billions of light-years away. It is the same rigorous criterion that dismantled systems of slavery, that refuted the infamous theories of racial inferiority, and that allows us to understand the universe —from the microcosm of a cell to the macrocosm of galactic clusters. Rigorous knowledge is not infallible, but it is the best tool we have to avoid living in the dark, to avoid falling prey to illusion.
Conclusion: Between the beauty of myth and the integrity of truth.
Astrology is, without a doubt, a beautiful cultural construction. It organizes the soul, gives us words for self-analysis when the coldness of psychoanalysis or the complexity of science seem inaccessible. It offers us an aesthetic and a poetics of being. But its symbolic effectiveness, its ability to evoke wonder or offer comfort, does not make it a factual truth.
It is a narrative, a collective poem about the human condition, not an immutable law of the universe. Denying this is not arrogance; it is the purest form of epistemic honesty. And in an age where truth, critical thinking, and shared reality are increasingly at risk of being diluted by subjectivity and relativism, defending this distinction can no longer be seen as rudeness or intellectual elitism.
Believing in astrology does not make you stupid or naïve. It is understandable, given the deep psychological and existential needs it satisfies —the human search for meaning in a vast and often indifferent cosmos. But not saying that it is false, allowing it to be confused with verifiable knowledge, makes us collectively more vulnerable to self-deception and manipulation. We can and must love the myth without demanding that it be science. We can marvel at the dance of the zodiac without granting it real and deterministic power over our decisions.
While astrology offers us a pre-established map of the soul, the journey of science invites us to chart our own map, to discover the laws that truly govern the cosmos. It is in this relentless search, in the humility of not knowing and the courage to ask, where true magic resides —a wonder that needs no illusion to be profound.
Contemplating an eclipse is not just watching two celestial bodies align; it is witnessing the gravitational dance of massive spheres, a cosmic choreography predicted with astonishing precision by equations, not by omens. And in that knowledge, there is a beauty and a marvel that far surpass any horoscope. We can continue to look at the sky with reverent awe, as our ancestors did, but without asking it to tell us who we are. Because that deep truth, in the end, can only arise from our own inquiry, our own reason, and our own experience in this vast and wondrous universe that science helps us to decipher.
