Who am I?

Why am I here?

What is the deeper intelligence woven into my life?

Most people today know astrology through the twelve signs of the zodiac. Yet long before modern horoscopes and Sun signs became popular, ancient civilizations across the world looked to a different celestial body.

The Moon.

The Moon is the closest celestial body to Earth and its influence is measurable. It governs the ocean tides through gravity, influences natural rhythms on our planet, and has been humanity’s oldest celestial clock.

For our ancestors, the Moon was not simply something beautiful to observe. It was a way of understanding time itself.

With extraordinary precision, ancient sky-watchers mapped the Moon’s journey through the fixed stars. They observed that the Moon completes its sidereal cycle in approximately 27.3 days, moving through 27 stellar divisions known as the lunar mansions.

These 27 lunar stars are among the oldest known systems of celestial observation, appearing in ancient traditions from India and China to the Middle East.

This ancient lunar science became the foundation of the earliest forms of astrology.

Vedic Astrology preserved this knowledge through the Nakshatras, and my own journey into the ancient stars began there.

For years, I studied Vedic Astrology. I was deeply moved by its depth, its precision, and the way it connected human life to the greater cosmic order.

And yet, something remained a mystery to me.

That changed the day I received an Asterian Astrology reading from my teacher, Jade Sol Luna.

It is difficult to describe what happened in that moment.

It was not simply that the reading was accurate.

It felt as though an ancient language I had somehow always known was being spoken back to me.

Something awakened.

A deep remembrance.

For the first time, I experienced astrology not merely as a system that described my personality or circumstances, but as a living mythology of my soul.

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What makes Asterian Astrology unique is that it does not only work with the 27 lunar stars themselves, but with a much more intricate system of calculation that reveals layers of meaning beyond traditional approaches.

While Vedic Astrology preserved the lunar mansions, Asterian Astrology - as transmitted by Jade Sol Luna - restores their mythological, initiatory, and spiritual dimensions and incorporates a more complex methodology of planetary relationships, stellar placements, and symbolic layers.

The result is a profoundly detailed soul blueprint.

Not because it tells us who we must become.

But because it reveals what has always been there.

Our gifts.

Our challenges.

Our desires.

Our wounds.

Our relationship with power, love, purpose, and the Divine.

The ancient Greek mysteries carried an inscription at the Temple of Apollo in Delphi:

“Know thyself.”

Perhaps this has always been the true purpose of astrology.

Not prediction.

Not control.

Not the search for certainty.

But remembrance.

A return to the deepest truth of who we are.

For me, Asterian Astrology is not merely another system of astrology.

It feels like a bridge back to a celestial wisdom that humanity has always carried within its memory.

A map of the soul written in the stars.

The ancient mysteries were never meant to give us something new. They were designed to help us remember.

If you feel called to explore the story written in your own stars, I invite you to begin with your Asterian Soul Blueprint.

Perhaps the stars do not tell us who to become.

Perhaps they simply remind us of who we have always been.

With love,

Anahita

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I did not grow up with Christ.

I was not raised within the walls of a church or taught to follow a particular doctrine.

And yet, from my earliest memories, there was a longing that lived quietly within me.

A longing for something I did not have words for.

A longing for God.

That longing became the thread that guided my entire life.

For more than twenty-eight years, I followed that thread across ancient temples, sacred lands, and ceremonies held by indigenous peoples who had carried these initiatory traditions through generations, preserving a wisdom that much of the modern world had forgotten.

I studied the great mysteries. I sat with teachers and elders. I entered sacred ceremonies not in search of extraordinary experiences, not because I wanted to become someone special, and not because I wished to escape being human.

But because something within me recognized a truth that could not be explained.

A remembrance.

A knowing that there had always been those who kept the flame alive.

The keepers of the ancient understanding that human life is not merely something we experience, but something we are initiated through.

Every true initiation asks us to walk the same path:

To die before we die.

Not the death of the body.

But the death of everything we believe ourselves to be.

Our name.

Our story.

Our achievements.

Our wounds.

Our fears.

Our identity.

During the summer solstice of 2025, after decades of walking this path, I was brought into the deepest initiation of my life.

Again, language fails.

How can the finite mind describe the moment it disappears?

There was no Anahita.

No past.

No future.

No woman searching for God.

No seeker.

No teacher.

No identity left to hold onto.

Everything dissolved into an infinite vastness.

A great silence.

A great void.

A nothingness that was not empty, but infinitely full.

A place beyond life and death.

Beyond beginning and end.

Beyond separation.

And yet, paradoxically, it was God.

Not a God somewhere outside of creation.

Not a distant being watching over us.

But the living source from which everything arises, and to which everything returns.

A love so vast that there was no longer a separation between myself and that love.

There was no Anahita left to experience it.

There was no one left to receive it.

There was only love.

An infinite frequency of love that I became one with.

And all I could do was try to bring that frequency back into this human body, to anchor it, to hold it, as though every cell in my being was trying to contain something infinitely greater than itself.

In that moment, I understood creation in a way I had never understood before.

Perhaps God did not create because He was lacking something.

Perhaps creation was the eternal overflowing of love.

A love so abundant, so limitless, that it poured itself into existence.

Into stars.

Into oceans.

Into trees.

Into every creature.

Into every human heart.

The realization came to me that perhaps what we call the beginning of creation - the great cosmic birth that science describes as the Big Bang - was not simply an event in a distant past, but the eternal act of God pouring Himself into existence.

A movement of love that is still happening now.

A forever now.

The intensity of that love was beyond anything my human body had ever known.

I thought I would explode.

And I wept.

Not out of fear.

But because I knew that returning to this human identity meant forgetting again.

It meant entering the dream of separation.

Stepping back into the grave.

And from the deepest place within me arose only these words:

God.

My God.

What a love.

When I returned from this experience, I understood something that I had never truly understood before.

The great mystery of Christ was not merely a story of one man who lived two thousand years ago.

It was a path.

A path of initiation.

A path of surrender.

A path of dying before we die.

A path of allowing everything that we are not to fall away, until there is enough emptiness for God to live through us, as us.

Perhaps this is why Christ said:

“You will do greater things than I.”

Not as a promise of power.

Not as an invitation to become extraordinary.

But as a reminder that the path of initiation did not end with him.

The path remains open.

The path of love.

The path of surrender.

The path of becoming fully human.

The cross itself also revealed a deeper meaning.

For much of history, we have looked at the crucifixion as the suffering of one person.

But perhaps the deeper mystery hidden within the cross is incarnation itself.

The vertical axis represents the descent of the soul into matter.

The Divine entering the human experience.

The horizontal axis represents the human journey itself: our relationships, our joys, our losses, our suffering, and the ordinary moments of earthly life.

And where these two meet is the heart.

The place where heaven and Earth embrace.

We are the cross.

Our body is the sacred meeting place between spirit and matter.

The great sacrifice of Christ was not the suffering itself.

Suffering is not holy.

The sacrifice was his willingness to remain fully open to the highest frequency of love and to pour that love into a world that did not always recognize it.

Perhaps this is the invitation of every human life.

Not to worship the cross.

But to become it.

To allow God to enter this realm through our hands, our words, our compassion, and our love.

This is also why I feel such tenderness when I witness the modern fascination with Mary Magdalene.

For centuries, she was misunderstood, diminished, and reduced to stories that obscured her true mystery.

And today, in some circles, we risk creating another kind of misunderstanding.

Her name has become a symbol attached to retreats, products, and spiritual identities. New stories are projected onto her that may reveal more about our longing than about the mystery she truly embodied.

Perhaps the greatest way to honour Mary Magdalene is not to turn her into another image for us to consume.

Perhaps it is to walk the path she walked.

The path of devotion.

The path of courage.

The path of witnessing.

The path of profound surrender.

The path of allowing love to transform us.

Since that summer solstice, I have devoted my life to a single prayer:

How can I become empty enough for God to love this world through me?

Not only in moments of stillness and transcendence.

But in the ordinary moments of being human.

In the way I speak to my children.

In the way I listen to another person’s suffering.

In the way I hold my own fears, my own wounds, and my own imperfections with compassion.

Because perhaps the greatest realization I have received is also the simplest:

The purpose of initiation is not to leave the world.

It is to return to it with a more open heart.

The ancient mystics did not transcend their humanity.

They embodied it.

And this, perhaps, is the deepest symbolism of the cross.

The vertical path of the soul’s remembrance must meet the horizontal path of earthly existence.

Spirit must enter matter.

Heaven must be lived on Earth.

And so my initiation did not end on that summer solstice.

In many ways, it had only just begun.

Even now, I continue to integrate what was revealed to me.

I continue to meet the parts of myself that still cling to fear, separation, and control.

I continue to learn what it means to surrender.

How to love.

How to be fully here.

I do not write these words as someone who has arrived.

I write them as a student of the mystery.

A human being who was given a glimpse of the infinite and who now spends each day learning how to let that infinite love take shape in a human life.

And every day, I try to remember the promise I made in that moment: to fully become that love and to allow it to pour through me into this world, to the best of my ability.

With love,

Anahita

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Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

The ancient mystery traditions understood this well.

Again and again, their stories speak of the descent into the underworld: the journey into darkness before the return to light. The seed that must disappear beneath the earth before it can break open. The night before the dawn. The cross before the resurrection.

For many years, I studied these mysteries as a seeker. I was drawn to ancient wisdom, astrology, and the great questions of existence. But I understood them mostly with my mind.

Life would eventually ask me to live them.

When my son was taken from me and brought to another country by his father, something in me broke that I did not know could break.

No language can truly describe the absence of your child. The helplessness. The endless questions. The silence where there once was laughter.

Months passed, and the grief became a darkness I could no longer see beyond.

One winter evening in 2012, I reached the deepest point of my life.

I sat alone, convinced that I could not carry another moment of pain.

I had a knife against my wrist.

And then, something happened that I will spend the rest of my life trying to find words for.

Nothing appeared before me.

No vision came.

There was only an overwhelming presence of love.

A love so complete, so unconditional, that everything inside me surrendered.

I collapsed into tears.

Not because my suffering had disappeared.

Not because my son had suddenly returned.

Nothing in the outer world had changed.

And yet everything had changed.

For the first time, I did not believe in God.

I experienced God.

Not as something outside of me, but as a presence more intimate than my own breath. A love that seemed to whisper through every broken piece of me:

You are held.

The road ahead was still long.

It would take another two and a half years before I could bring my son back home. With the help of a courageous crime journalist and his television programme Ontvoerd (“Kidnapped”), which was viewed by more than one million people in the Netherlands, I was finally able to bring him safely home from Turkey.

Even after his return, my children and I would spend more than a year in a heavily guarded safe house. There were years of fear, uncertainty, legal battles, and rebuilding.

This was not a story where the miracle came and everything became easy.

The miracle was something far quieter.

It was that, from that night onward, I was never alone.

Every step I took was guided by something I could not explain, only trust.

Years later, this path of surrender would lead me into a profound experience of complete union with the Divine. A moment in which everything I thought myself to be dissolved, and only love remained.

Yet even this was not an ending. Initiation is never a destination.

Perhaps this is where many of us misunderstand the spiritual path. We imagine it is about becoming more special, more awakened, more knowledgeable.

But the great mysteries have always pointed in another direction.

Christ did not reveal his divinity by avoiding suffering. His deepest teaching was found in the surrender of Gethsemane:

“Not my will, but Thy will be done.”

The descent came before the resurrection.

The emptying came before the return.

And perhaps this is the invitation hidden within every dark night of the soul.

Not that suffering itself is sacred.

Not that we should seek pain.

I would never choose the path that brought me there.

I would give anything to have been spared the separation from my child.

But life sometimes brings us to a threshold where everything we thought we were falls away.

A place where we can no longer rely on our strength, our understanding, or our plans.

And sometimes, in that holy helplessness, something else enters.

Something that has always been there.

Love.

Not the love of achievement.

Not the love of becoming someone extraordinary.

But the simple, terrifying, beautiful realization that perhaps the purpose of our incarnation is to become empty enough for God to live through us, as us.

I do not write these words as someone who has arrived.

I write them as someone who was broken open by grace and who continues, every day, to learn what it means to surrender.

With love,

Anahita

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