The Tales of The Returns: My Saturn Return

Hello you magickal beings, and welcome to a new writing series I’m calling Tales of the Returns.

If you’ve spent any amount of time around me, you’ve probably learned a few things about me already:

• I’m deeply fascinated by Astrology, even when it feels wildly technical.

• I love taking systems apart to understand how they work before rebuilding them into something meaningful.

• I live for those delicious little “aha” moments in life.

• And perhaps most importantly… I absolutely adore Theresa Reed.

Recently, Theresa released The Book of Astrological Returns through Weiser Books, and while reading it, I started noticing just how perfectly many of these planetary returns lined up with pivotal moments in my own life.

So naturally, the writer in me thought: Why not turn this into a storytelling series?

And thus, Tales of the Returns was born.

In this series, I’ll be sharing the stories of what unfolded during some of the biggest astrological returns of my life — the lessons, the chaos, the glamour, and the transformations that arrived right on cosmic schedule.

And where better to begin than with one of the most notorious returns of them all:

The Saturn Return.

In Astrology, Saturn is often described as the great teacher. If Jupiter expands, Saturn contracts. If Jupiter says “dream bigger,” Saturn asks, “Wonderful. But how are you going to build it?”

Saturn brings awareness of responsibility, limitation, structure, maturity, and time. And when Saturn returns to the same sign and degree it occupied at the moment of your birth — usually sometime around your late twenties — life tends to hand you a rather dramatic invitation to grow up.

Not necessarily in the boring “become serious forever” sense.

But in the sense of becoming honest.

Honest about what works.
Honest about what doesn’t.
Honest about who you are becoming.

My first Saturn Return began toward the tail end of 2009, and by the time it finished, my entire life had transformed in ways I never could have anticipated.

At the time, I was about a year out of graduate school. I was teaching voice lessons, singing professionally, and trying very hard to build the classical music career I had spent most of my life preparing for.

I had recently joined the Columbus Gay Men’s Chorus and was preparing for my very first Joy! To The World Christmas concert. That same season, the chorus premiered Christmas By The Hearth by Tim Sarsany — which, if you’ve never heard it, please do yourself a favor and find a recording because it is absolutely stunning.

From the outside looking in, it seemed like everything was finally happening.

I was singing.
I was teaching.
I was performing professionally.
I had finally made it into the chorus for Roméo et Juliette with the Columbus Opera Company after countless auditions.

I was living the dream I had spent years training for.

Or at least… I thought I was.

Because the truth was far less glamorous.

Midwestern winters are not kind creatures, especially when you’re a struggling artist trying to survive on inconsistent performance work and teaching income. I could barely afford to keep my apartment above 68 degrees, which feels significantly less cozy when it’s 32 degrees outside and your drafty apartment windows were apparently installed sometime during the Roosevelt administration.

I spent so much time singing for survival that I had completely forgotten how to sing for joy.

And that realization hit hard.

The Columbus Gay Men’s Chorus became a sanctuary during that time. Unlike my paid singing work, this was something I was doing purely because I loved it. No auditions hanging over my head. No career ladder. No desperate attempt to prove my worth.

Just music.
Just community.
Just joy.

And somewhere during my Saturn Return, I had to face a painful truth:

Even though I had devoted years of education, money, and identity to classical music… I was miserable trying to make it my profession.

So I made one of the hardest decisions of my life.

I hung up my professional singing hat.

At least the version of it I thought I was supposed to pursue.

And then Saturn decided that wasn’t enough upheaval.

Because around this same time, another truth began surfacing:

I wanted to do drag.

Now, this wasn’t entirely out of nowhere. The seeds had been there for years. I vividly remember watching To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar in high school and feeling completely enchanted by the artistry, humor, heart, and transformation of drag performance.

But during my Saturn Return, that curiosity evolved into action.

Through the people I met in Columbus Gay Men’s Chorus, I became increasingly involved in the local queer community. Many of those friends also performed in variety shows and benefit events where drag queens and kings took the stage delivering comedy, ballads, camp, glamour, and absolute chaos.

And eventually, I was invited to participate.

Now let me paint the picture for you.

I stepped onto that stage with:

• no pads,

• no body,

• a tragic synthetic wig,

• makeup that can only be described as “optimistically applied,”

• and a Velma from Scooby-Doo outfit.

To put it lovingly:

I was a complete mess. I mean ... see for yourself:

But honestly? Most queens are the first time around.

And yet somehow, underneath all the crunchy wig fibers and busted eyeliner, something clicked into place.

That first performance led to another.
Then another benefit.
Then an open stage.
Then more performances.
Then hosting.
Then producing.

And before I knew it, I had built an entirely new creative life for myself.

Now here we are fifteen years later with a business, performances, teaching opportunities, and even a book under my belt.

And it all started because I nervously walked onto a stage trying to help raise money for my community.

Looking back now, I can see that my first Saturn Return didn’t destroy my dreams the way people often warn you it will.

Instead, it stripped away the identities I had outgrown.

It taught me the difference between achievement and fulfillment.

Between performing for survival and performing for joy.

Between the life I thought I was supposed to want and the life that was actually waiting for me.

And somewhere between opera scores, freezing apartments, busted wigs, and benefit shows…

I became myself.

Stella B