“Choose me.”
The voice echoed through the dim cocoon of my basement office. Only the pale glow of my computer screen lit the room.

“I can show you everything,” the voice promised, silky as rose petals and just as sharp beneath the softness.

I swiveled back and forth in my chair like an oracle waiting for a sign. I needed to choose a planetary deity for my course on planetary magick. Simple task, right? Just pick from the celestial buffet: the classic inner planets, plus the Sun and Moon.

Naturally, I leaned toward the Moon. Who doesn’t want to hang out with a mysterious goddess who deals in secrets, cycles, and tides? She seemed like the right one to help me unearth whatever was blocking my financial flow.
Then there was Mercury—flashy, fast-talking god of communication, writing, luck, and memes (well, in my version). A logical choice. And Jupiter, ever the cosmic Santa Claus, beckoned with promises of expansion and abundance.

But then—

“You should choose me. I can help you the most.”

Venus.
Oh no.
It was her. Her.
The voice practically dripped in honey and glitter.

I resisted.

Venus? Really? What could the goddess of love, beauty, sex, and aesthetic delights possibly offer me—a frazzled adjunct professor stewing in financial panic and existential dread?

I shut off my computer and trudged upstairs. Venus? No way. My overactive imagination had clearly hit a sugar high. Still, why her?

Upstairs, my thoughts swirled. I needed to pick a deity. I needed a breakthrough. I needed… money. Fast.
I was barely scraping by teaching two online classes. One was ending soon. No new contracts. No net beneath the high-wire act of survival.

A few years back, I had left of a toxic job that left me feeling drained and defeated. Since then, I had been surviving on savings and side hustles—adjunct gigs in the Humanities (translation: soul work, terrible pay). Enrollment had started tanking even before 2020 came in swinging.

I threw resumes into the void and landed a few interviews—none of which stuck.
But here’s the truth: I didn’t want any of those jobs. Not really. Not beyond their potential to keep the lights on and me and my partner fed. My past in education left me feeling disposable, exploited. Admin work? Pure drudgery. I wasn’t built for bureaucracy.

The Fear kept me immobilized. I couldn’t even choose a planet. I slumped in my chair, spiraling into a melodramatic monologue about the futility of everything. Nothing would ever work again. Ever. Not the course. Not the cosmos. Not me.

Then, while brushing my teeth—classic mystical portal—I time-traveled to my youth. I forgot all about my financial troubles for the moment. In my mind now, a TV show featuring young, androgynous Johnny Depp lit up my mind. I remembered thinking he was heartbreakingly beautiful. Then came the reel: all my childhood crushes, a parade of androgynous movie stars. I started laughing. Then laughing harder. Full-on cackling in my bathroom.

Twenty years with a woman, and I still hadn’t pieced it together? I’d considered myself bisexual since my late twenties, but this was different.
It clicked. I had always gravitated toward feminine energy.

I remembered how all my stuffed animals were girls. How women flirted with me, and I missed it by miles. How I squeezed myself into a heteronormative mold because I grew up Catholic, where the only sanctioned option came with a veil and a side of guilt.

Even after embracing my orientation, I buried the signs. I swept the whole sparkling truth under the rug. But now, under fluorescent bathroom light and Venus’s mischievous gaze, it erupted.

I wept with joy. Venus had cracked me open.

She didn’t stop there.

With a firm but loving flick of reason, she reminded me: I was born this way to carve my own strange and sacred path. Not just in who I love, but in how I think.
I am autistic. Neurodivergent. I fought with my awkward self all my life. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own body.
And that, she whispered, is not a curse. It is a gift.

It’s why I see the world differently. Why I struggle in systems designed for sameness. Why joy hides in weird corners and sudden moments.
She told me I’d suffer now, but find freedom later. I believed her.

That night, I chose her.

I dedicated two crystal charms and a pink stuffed bunny to Venus. (You heard me.) I ordered ritual supplies and dove into the course with a Venusian wink.

Then just a few weeks later—plot twist—I got a job. Not in my field, and not from anything I applied for. Just… an email. Unsolicited. A phone interview. A lucrative gig. Out of nowhere. Not perfect, not forever, but it carried me through the chaos of COVID and to today.

A few years later, while studying astrology, I discovered that Venus rules my birth chart. She lives in my First House—the house of self—in Taurus, the sign of sensuality, stability, and self-worth.

Suddenly, everything made sense.
Of course she called to me.

Working with Venus has been nothing short of magical. She unearthed lost parts of me, restored my joy, and showed me the dazzling power of love, beauty, and self-worth. She prepared me for working with other planetary deities and beyond!

I hope sharing this story inspires you to explore planetary magick—not just as an abstract concept, but as a personal myth.
Let the planets speak. Let the gods flirt with you. You never know who’s waiting in the shadows of your soul, whispering:

Choose me.