Maybe at 15, we loved to wonder if parallel worlds existed or if there was life after this one. Just out of curiosity, nothing more. Back then, death was our fuel—it hit us like Kirk Hammett’s riffs in Creeping Death or the haunting intro of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Death wasn’t an end; it was a springboard for our hormones, a catapult into a nihilism that bled into freedom. We were still far from the years when someone we loved would actually die, aging us in a single second no matter where Saturn sat in the sky. Far, too, from the loves that would make us want to believe in reincarnation, in energy that never fades. But before we got lost in the whirlwinds of riffs, fights, first hatreds, brawls, malice, passion, jealousy, and the trembling shame and fear that gripped us equally, we were cradled in the warm waves of sentimental sensations.

Libra and Scorpio.
The crossroad of puberty, or every crisis.

To us, a young person at that age—or anyone going through the agony of transformation—feels like an Aquarius. An alien, different, beautiful yet somehow awkward with the changes rippling through their body. Out of place, a weirdo, fiercely their own, wild, unpredictable, rebellious. That’s why breakups, scandals, crises, and turning points in life that change us forever still belong to the Aquarius principle. But what drives us to break in those moments—because everything in Aquarius snaps and shatters—lives at the edge of Libra and the dawn of Scorpio. A pleasant day turns ominously heavy. A breeze becomes a hurricane. Sweetness sours into bitterness, or worse, poison.

The person we’d been was gone, forever reshaped by the storms of youth.

Back in “our” days, that meant doing something others disapproved of, waging war against Libra’s world of balance. Shaming a father who only ever wanted to avoid that sting, or breaking a mother’s heart to its core. Today, it means waging war with yourself. Fighting every lie. Psychologists can try, but anthropologists might do more for teenagers.

Back then, in our teenage years, we danced from one lie to another, blissfully unaware. But today’s kids? They’re different. They hunger for truth like it’s air, chasing it raw and unfiltered through the chaos of their world. While we wove stories to shield ourselves, they tear through illusions, demanding what’s real, no matter how sharp or heavy it lands.

The gap between generations isn’t just a matter of years anymore—it’s a seismic clash of foundations, a battle of what the world is. We parents beg our kids to dive into books, to lose themselves in stories. But for them, the world itself is a living book, its pages unfolding in the flicker of screens and the pulse of life around them. We read to touch what we hadn’t lived—or to find our own experiences mirrored in the words of some distant author who seemed to know our hearts. Some of us still chase that feeling, turning pages for the same reason. But today’s kids? They’ve seen it all, swallowed the world whole, and the tales in books feel like faded echoes, too faint to hold them.

We dreamed of becoming when we grew up—of stepping into some grand version of ourselves. They? They want to have—to hold the world in their hands, forged by experience, carved out through doing.

We were obsessed with “When?”—a question that still haunts us. They only ask “How?”—fearless, drawn to strength, greatness, wealth, power, with a boldness we barely dared to dream. We swayed to Footloose, hands clasped, hearts soft with possibility. They’re a storm of energy, their words flashing like lightning—texting “I love you” in one breath and “I hate you” in the next, each syllable alive with the raw truth of their fire.

These days, among the nine-year-olds of 2025, K-Pop Demon Hunters is more than a movie—it’s a wildfire, a megahit that’s set their hearts ablaze. Uranus has hit the gas, speeding up the pulse of their world. Hormones flare early, screens overload their senses, and Libra’s charm wraps them up by age five, teaching them to chase joy through hashtags and #BFFs. Even Djokovic, after finale, twirled through a dance from that film just to see his daughter’s eyes light up.

My own girl is counting down the hours to our weekend movie night, when we’ll dive into that electric world together. It’s no coincidence—it’s the cosmos at play, Mars sliding from Libra’s harmony into Scorpio’s fire, the Moon trailing like a shadow.

The energy is rising now. A rising tide that won’t be tamed. Picture an acoustic guitar string snapping mid-song, giving way to a thunder of drums. The wind howls, calling forth a storm. Volcanoes stir, no longer content to sleep. Rivers churn, too wild for lazy boat rides with soft music drifting. This isn’t a soft sprinkle—it’s a torrential flood, sweeping everything in its path. Sentiments turn into raw passion; gentle caresses turn to grips that leave bruises. Words, once long and meandering, collapse into dense, quivering silences. The kids? They’re untamed—fighting, raging, hurting themselves, then dancing, leaping, leaving chaos in their wake. They tidy up just to tear it all down again, over and over, until the weight of authority crumbles.

Mars in Scorpio knows there’s no such thing as a gentle peace. Too much quiet, and the world grows still—too still—ripe for manipulation, conquest, submission, obedience. That’s why our kids won’t listen in the weeks to come. Oh, how we sat, still and obedient, soaking in the world’s lessons with folded hands. But these kids? Their beds are battlegrounds, blankets spilled across the floor, pillows flung high one moment, crashing low the next. A restless energy swirls through them, and Libra’s polished charm only sparks their interest when their parents’ paychecks hit. Suddenly, they’re all diplomats, sly and silver-tongued. No “Can we get a kitten?” for them. Instead, it’s “Dad, look! This kitten’s already so attached to me!”  They flirt like they breathe. They weathered their first heartbreak in preschool. By fourth grade, they’re scheming over ice cream dates.

Their focus will cut like a blade now, but obsession will creep in too. A La Bubu toy they have to own, or some tangled drama sparked by their best friend’s sister. “Mom, did you know La Bubu is a demon?” my daughter asks, and I’m left wondering when I first tossed that word into the world.

This isn’t our time. As I wrote in my last newsletter—Today Isn’t Yesterday (subscribe here if you haven’t already)—energy reigns supreme now, Scorpio’s fire burning brighter than Libra’s grace. Yelling falls flat, punishments dissolve, threats fizzle, and all our parental striving scatters like ash. They only hear energy: the pulse of laughter, the tumble of playful words, the spark of jokes and teasing. Want them to clean their room? Belt it out like Phil Anselmo (Pantera) roaring, and just maybe, they’ll move.

Deep within us, while Mars blazes in Scorpio, our inner child stirs, 15 again, craving the fearlessness it once knew. It yearns to break free from the weight of “that’s how it’s supposed to be,” “you must,”  or “that’s how it is.” To shake off the dread of endings, of things that fade, and ignite a fire that burns away every lie. But the universe chuckles at our defiance. Even when we tear it all down, something new creeps in—something that soothes, that lulls us back to sleep, that makes us compliant, cooperative, softened by sentiment’s pull.

For us, energy is a fleeting moment, a spark we chase through the haze. For them, it’s the very air they breathe, the heartbeat of their reality. When we embrace that truth, we’ll quiet our Libra-born chatter, our endless need to negotiate and please. Our parents, born into a world of scarcity and struggle, found Libra’s gifts through us—self-love, the joy of the public world, laughter shared on weekends and workdays alike. And now, through our children, we’re forged into Scorpio parents: kings and queens of the absurd, fearless, driven by strength and purpose even when the world offers no meaning at all.

Rise, rise. Rise, rise. It’s all or nothing.
Rise, rise. Rise, rise. It’s do or die.
Rise. Rise. Rise.

Keep the flame alive!