“You Don’t Have To Be Good Anymore”
How a Swedish Astrology Reading Brought Me Back To Myself.
It’s easy to get lost in the Götgatan neighborhood, caught in a flood of holiday shoppers who are seeking Dala trinkets, Lapland jewelry, and tasty apple cake. Sure, I could resist joining the flock, but I’ll let the universe guide me down this Stockholm city street that is filled with minimalist designer furniture, expensive beige clothing, and Instagramable fika shops that sell shit I’ll never be able to afford. Where else do I need to be?
There is a fresh skirt of snow crunching under my feet. I pass store names I can’t pronounce, cafes filled with laughing families, and limestone & brick buildings that are a mix of Sweden’s industrial past and its movement into a more trendy future. Beautifully carved wooden doors look misplaced next to the cement lane. I feel out of place with my dark hair and my white winter jacket that screams tourist among the current of dark wool coats and blond locks. Indistinguishable voices speak in a mix of English and Swedish, and a little German. I can’t understand everything being said, but I wonder if we’re all looking for the same thing: books on personal development, candles, and at-home spa treatments? The type of items that scream, “I’m into self-care because I’m dead inside,” and looking for something to complete me. But self-fulfillment only comes when you stop focusing on the destination and enjoy the journey, right?
I spot something out of place. Like when you see your first gray hair pop. A black brick shop about 25 yards to my right with a metal sign of a witch on a broom.
My kind of store.
The crowd is moving faster and I see neon signs with words I can’t read hanging in the storefront window. Brooms, black bats, and colorful lights hang above the shop sign. I break away from the sidewalk river and find myself facing the front glass door. I walk in.
There is no bell to announce me, and notes of sandalwood, lemon, and berry immediately invade my nose. Colorful and fun vintage bottles of kitchen scrub, bathroom polish, and hot pink feather dusters stand out from black walls and ceiling-high metal shelves. On a small, round table in the center of the store, I find tarot cards, crystals, and books on witchcraft, astrology, runes, and feng shui. I realize I’m in a popular witch-themed cleaning supply store that is packed from door to backend with shoppers moving at a snail’s pace to buy the newest tile cleaner or packet of sage to ward off evil energy.
This is definitely my kind of store.
I make my first lap around the small shop, too enamored to touch anything. As I begin my second lap, I notice a multilingual schedule of event posters hanging near the entrance. Live talks, psychic sessions with Marcella, and tea-leaf readings. Next to today’s date, Saturday, Dec 4, 2021: “Today’s Guest: Astrology Readings with Erik.”
I wasn’t planning on having a reading, but $40 for 30 minutes seems more than reasonable, and it’s always been a dream of mine to do this sort of thing outside the US. Only now, I’m Julia Roberts in my version of Eat, Pray, Love, on the verge of obtaining some sort of life-changing news from a Swedish Ketut. And it's been well over a decade since I had my astrology chart read, and who doesn’t want to hear a synopsis of what’s to come?
I take my place in line so I can sign up for the next available time slot. There’s a young couple in front of me buying glass cleaner and a bag of palo santo - a Peruvian wood stick used for clearing bad energy. The boyfriend looks uncomfortable, as if his girlfriend dragged him here, and he’s not buying any of it. I know the kind - men who are dismissive of women who enjoy new age philosophy. I’m sure he’ll be spewing science and logic to her once they’re outside. Making fun of the store and the people, like me, who take this sort of thing seriously. Just like my college boyfriend, when I had my first astrology reading. I can barely conjure an image of the astrologist. What was his name? Walter? Winston? Something ‘W’ heavy, for sure. All I remember now is how uncomfortable he made me. The way he complimented my “dark features” while holding my hand, refusing to let go. All the while telling me that my Virgo boyfriend, who was looking at swords at the time, was cheating on me. It turned out he was right.
The cashier writes my name down on a sticky note and directs me to sit behind two blond, early twenty-something women. I sit in the only available seat next to them, a tall wicker peacock chair that’s probably been here since the late 60s. It’s flimsy and feels like it will soon collapse. Will my big booty be its demise?
Like everyone else here, the women are jumping back and forth between languages. Is it because they want to practice conversational English or sheer boredom?
“I’m nervous. Are you nervous?”
I’m convinced the girls, who look like Scandinavian goddesses with their shiny golden hair and natural silky skin, are here to ask about crushes or unrequited love.
The other goddess replies through gritted teeth and an awkward smile, “I am, but, like, what if he tells us something bad? I don’t want to hear something bad.”
Me neither.
I‘ve been going to psychics, clairvoyants, and oracle readers since I was eighteen. It wasn’t a regular thing, but something I did from time to time for spiritual guidance or a glimpse into a future that felt uncertain. I’d always been fascinated with the metaphysical and new-age world. I had a bevy of unexplainable experiences that happened to me as a child: ghost sightings and premonition-type dreams, and in my quest to uncover their meaning, I was introduced to the world of occult theories. I began journaling, buying zodiac jewelry, and nonfiction books on serendipitous encounters, or God-Winks, and even on paranormal events. But my introduction to psychics, astrologers, and clairvoyants didn’t begin until my high school sweetheart broke my heart during my freshman year of college.
Since then, I’ve had a lot of readings. I can’t even guesstimate how many. I’ve had good readings, bad readings, and okay readings. I’ve even had really bad readings with frauds who tried to convince me that I had been cursed and needed to pay an additional $100 for a spiritual cleansing, or readers who misjudged my knowledge and experience and tried to manipulate tarot card messages, not knowing I understood way more than I was letting on. I’ve had incredible sessions with psychics who accurately predicted my future. Like the time I was told that my next partner would be strongly connected with a man named George. A few months later, I met my now ex-husband, and his grandfather was, you guessed it, George. But despite all the readings I’ve had, it wasn’t unusual for my mind to race before a reading. What if I did hear something bad, not just a mild warning like, “Take care of your debts now before things get worse,” but something really bad, like, “You’re going to die soon, so get your shit together.”
The blondes certainly seem comfortable with each other. Are they sisters or best friends? They look related. They’re talking about love, heartbreak, and career uncertainty, and I hear the nervousness in their voices. They’re minutes away from convincing themselves not to participate, and I’m starting to feel nervous too. If I were in a more social mood, I would probably try to relieve them of their fears. I could tell them that it’s going to be a fun experience and that they should relax. Take it all with a grain of salt. Instead, I close my eyes and focus on calming the family of kangaroos that have suddenly taken residency in my belly
My concentration is broken when the cashier yells, “Mila & Anna.” The goddesses look at one another and give a nervous smile before gliding across the room to the counter. I lose sight of them in the crowd.
Good luck, girls.
When my turn finally comes, the cashier doesn’t yell my name or seek me out from the crowd. She is speaking to a tall, thin, middle-aged man at the counter and points to me. He walks toward me, adjusting round glasses that are too small for his face. His long salt and pepper hair is pulled back into a ponytail but wiry white strands, going each and every way, make him appear unkempt and stressed. He reminds me of a cross between Doc from Back to the Future and Ebony Maw from Avengers. But there’s a calmness about his energy. Just being in his presence my body feels relaxed.
“Felicia?” he asks.
“Yes.” I notice my voice is an octave lower than normal. The words feel stuck in the back of my throat. I clear it with a mini-gargle, “Yes, that's me.”
“This way…”
I follow Erik to a small makeshift room, probably a previous closet. Inside the dimly lit space, surrounded by dark velvet curtains, are two black fold-up chairs and a small round table that’s holding a laptop. Not an unusual tool for a modern astrologer. I take a seat in the corner and we jump into the session because someone is already waiting behind me.
“Birthdate?”
“August 13, 1984.” I follow with my birth time and birthplace, knowing it will be his next question, as it’s the sequence of information you need to complete a birth chart. I expect he’s going to give me a quick overview of my chart and a report of any current transitions - how my Leo sun and Pisces moon are interacting with the 12 astrological houses.
Erik takes a moment to study the circular diagram on his computer screen filled with various symbols for planets and astrological signs, each detailing what was where when I was born, and how that shapes me. He takes a deep breath, and I feel my stomach drop, scared of what’s being revealed to him.
“You look very young…” His voice is low and slow, and I kind of feel like I’m listening to one of those meditation tapes. His broken English and Swedish accent gives off a Freud-ish vibe. I trust him immediately. “...but you’re very wise. Venus and Mercury are in Virgil in the 12th house, which is very interesting.These people are very searchful in life: why they’re here and what they’re meant to do. They’re also very good writers because they know how to tell stories. They’re actors too.”
I can’t help but laugh, “I’m a writer and an actor.”
“Oh, you are?” He sounds surprised and happy. “These signs want to express themselves. When you started life, this was pushed down, but as you got older these feelings got stronger. You’re a philosopher at heart. You like discussion and like to hear other opinions to reveal truths. This is your fire to create.”
Erik tells me about my personality and talents: how Gemini in my 10th house means I like to hold many professions at once because I’m easily bored (very true), and that I’m destined to become a successful writer and speaker (my life goal), and how my love of people and differing cultures is going to shape my future. He then accurately paints a picture of the last three horrible years of my life and how I’m transitioning out of one phase of my life - a phase that I’ve been in for thirty years - how I’m about to embark on a fresh chapter (thank you, Jupiter) with “new friends, lovers, and travel & career opportunities.” All-in-all, my life is about to change for the better. The bad, as far as we could see, is finally over.
Just as we’re finishing, Erik turns his seat to face me, “You don’t have to be good anymore.”
My breath leaves my body. How did he know I was scared to be seen as anything less than good? Did he know about how I was suspended in middle school for mooning on a basketball trip? Did he know about my wild college days? How I once partied with the mafia at a fancy strip club in NYC?
He leans in. I smell the muskiness of a wood-burning fireplace on his plaid button-up. The way smoke leaks from the pipe and sticks to your clothes even after a dozen washes. He wants to make sure I understand, “You don’t have to worry about being good anymore.”
I’m breathing again. “Wow…. okay.”
I want to say more but I can’t. I want to pause our conversation so I can consider his words and the layers of thoughts and emotions my mind is trying to process on spin cycle. Days before in Iceland, while at a writing residency, I realized my whole life had been structured around doing the right thing and not wanting to be perceived as bad. But now, here I am, with my modern 21st-century astrologer and his trusty laptop, given permission to not give any more fucks.
Erik sighs deeply with his hands in his lap, and I can sense a wave of tension moving up into his shoulders.
Could he tell his words have numbed me in the best way possible? Spiritual readings, like this, have often given me the courage to leave unhealthy relationships, reassuring me that I would find happiness and love again. They’ve given me the confidence to take leaps into the unknown when I was scared that my dreams were unreachable or silly. And they helped heal scars and wounds so deep they had roots so I could breathe and live again. For a long time, I became reliant on astrology, psychics, manifestation, spiritual energy, reincarnation, and even karma. They became my religion. Especially when life was hard: when the questions never stopped and doubt felt like an extension of my body. But I walked away from my faith; I stopped believing.
I want to tell Erik how I recently had a hysterectomy after multiple miscarriages in my twenties. Everyone thinks I’m okay, that I’m “so strong,” but I’m devastated by how long my pain was dismissed. How I’m single, childless, with stage four endometriosis, worried I'll never find love and companionship again. Does he know by his apparent psychic gifts that I feel like I’ve been doing everything right my entire life and still seem to fail? How I’ve never felt good enough. Like the universe has given up on me.
Erik is holding his right hand close to his chest with his left. His eyes lock with mine, and I swear I can feel tiny beads of sweat running from my neck to my buttcrack. He continues, “When you were younger, you didn't want to shake things up. You didn't want to hurt people or make them upset. You wanted to be good.”
“I did…”
My entire life had been dictated by the notion of being good. Being good prevented me from being present in many of life’s ordinary moments, and fear kept the boundary. Fear felt like a slow and steady whisper when my lips felt tempted to keep kissing a stranger, but I didn’t want to be a slut. Fear pushed the next shot of whiskey to my neighbor, worried that I was an alcoholic like my father. Often it masqueraded as an hourglass, encouraging me to settle in life as an alternative to failure.
With his hand now on my right shoulder, his words - that could sound like a simple suggestion to anyone else - feel more like an urgent request. “Keep traveling. You travel to find peace and to feel something. You travel to feel your heart, and the journey kicks your art into gear and helps you reconnect with yourself and your purpose. It’s time to make yourself happy.”
It is.
“You’re right. It’s time to make myself happy.” I touch his left shoulder and give it a light squeeze. “Thank you.” I don’t know what more to say.
I walk out of the makeshift room and it feels like I’m gliding through the store, as if the breeze is carrying me. I can’t hear anything but my heartbeat, so deep in my ears that it tickles. Something new but familiar feels awakened within me. As if the old me, dormant and patiently waiting, is beginning to surface.
Outside, my senses jump into hyperdrive. I can smell everything: hot cocoa, men wearing too much cologne, and the holiday aroma of pine and snow. My skin fills with goosebumps. The sky is now filled with sugary soft clouds glowing in a winter's haze. I am invoked by desire. I want, for the first time in a long time, a lover to hold my hand. Rendezvous with me against the walls of centuries-old buildings. I want to write and travel. No more excuses. I want to feel my spirit dance within a city's pheromone system as I discover new corners of myself. I want to live.
Finally.
