Mars & the Will to move
The Will to Move
An exploration of Mars/ Mangal, and what it means to choose yourself.
There is a moment that arrives in many women’s lives, often unnoticed by the outside world, yet utterly defining from within. It rarely comes as a dramatic rupture. There’s no grand announcement or flashing signpost. Often, it begins in the ordinary—a slight pause, a breath caught somewhere between habit and clarity. Perhaps it happens in a quiet kitchen, where your fingertips hover over your phone and look down at a message you’ve typed a hundred times before, only to feel your body tense. Not today. Not this time.
It’s subtle, but something shifts. And that shift is not logical—it’s somatic. Something deep and visceral has moved from waiting to motion. From hesitation to certainty. From hoping someone else will understand, to no longer needing them to. From asking for a sign to realising, with a quiet exhale, that you are the one who decides.
This is something I’ve lived for a few years now. Universal Will vs Free Will and how to step into that sovereignty not just for a day or two. But everyday.
Enter astrology —
This is how Mars lives in the body. Not as rage, nor as force, nor as posturing. But as clarity. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes unmistakable. Always unapologetic. It is the part of you that recognises what is true and refuses to ask for permission to honour it.
Most of us are not taught how to be in relationship with this part of ourselves. Particularly not as women. We are taught, directly and indirectly, to keep the waters smooth. To accommodate. To monitor how much space we take up. We learn to adapt before we assert, to soothe rather than to speak, to internalise the emotional temperature of the room before we respond from our own.
And to be clear—there is value in sensitivity. There is wisdom in attunement. But when softness becomes our only permitted mode, when empathy is expected to override instinct, and when adjustment becomes the entire shape of our lives, something else in us begins to ache.
Eventually, we arrive at the edge of our own performance. We begin to sense the cost of our silence. We start to recognise that what we’ve been calling peace is, in fact, just a very elegant form of self-abandonment. It’s in this exact moment—often uncomfortable, and almost always quiet—that something within us rises and simply says: enough.
This is Mars.
In Western astrology, Mars is understood as the principle of action, movement, direction, and desire. He is the one who initiates, who cuts, who dares. In Vedic astrology, Mars is called Mangal, and he is believed to be born not from fire, but from the Earth herself—Bhumi Devi, the feminine personification of soil, gravity, and sustenance. What this mythic origin story suggests is profound: that movement, in its truest form, arises not from reaction, but from rootedness. Our ability to act does not sever us from the feminine—it grows from it.
Mars is not separate from the body. He is the heat in the belly when something isn’t right. He’s the breath that shortens when your boundaries are being tested. He’s the quiet stillness that arises not from apathy but from deep decision. Mars is not a god of chaos. In his cleanest form, he is the force that reminds us: I am here. I am not available for what isn’t true. I choose.
He also rules the first house in astrology—the place of emergence, selfhood, and that very first moment of existence. In this context, Mars governs not just anger or action, but the very act of being born. The courage to separate from the womb. The choice to enter this life. The moment the umbilical cord is cut and breath floods the lungs. That’s not metaphor. That’s Mars. Your first movement was an act of Will.
In the Thelemic tradition—a spiritual philosophy built on the principle of sovereignty—there’s a line that reads: “Love is the law, love under Will.” It’s often misinterpreted as hedonism, but in its truest form, it speaks to the primacy of spiritual alignment. Love means very little when it’s not chosen. And Will, when separated from love, becomes domination rather than clarity. But when these two forces come together, they create something sustainable, embodied, and profoundly human.
In this context, Mars becomes the executor of your deeper knowing. He is not the source of truth, but the one who acts on it. He doesn’t wait until you’ve explained yourself twelve times. He doesn’t linger in indecision. He acts—not out of impulse, but from alignment. When Mars is clear in you, you move. And when you move from that place, the world around you begins to shift in response.
I see it all the time. In my own life and in women carrying around other people’s Mars—other people’s timelines, decisions, rules, definitions of power. They’re exhausted, not because they’re doing too much, but because they’re not doing what is theirs to do. They’re overextended in places that don’t honour them, saying yes when they’re already at capacity, ignoring the truth in their belly because it feels easier than facing what might happen if they stop being agreeable.
And yet, no matter how long you wait, that truth doesn’t go away. That heat remains. It might get quiet. It might bury itself under rationality or spiritual bypassing or perfectionism. But it doesn’t disappear. Because there’s a part of you that is simply not available for dishonesty. Not anymore.
Reclaiming Mars doesn’t always look like breaking things or walking away in a blaze. Sometimes it looks like restraint. Sometimes it’s what you don’t say. Sometimes it’s the email you don’t send. Sometimes it’s the way you finally say “no,” not as an explanation, but as a sentence.
Mars doesn’t need to be dramatic. He just needs to be clean. And when your Mars is clean, something incredible happens. You stop leaking energy. You stop explaining your existence. You stop outsourcing your decisions to people who do not have to live with the consequences of your life. Your energy consolidates. You move differently.
People feel the shift. Not because you’re louder. But because you’ve become more exact, more precise, akin to a surgeon. (Mars rules knives and the scalpel, the best surgeons often have strong Mars in their chart.)
And of course, you don’t need to live in that fire 24/7. You don’t need to fight or force. You just need to stop suppressing the part of you that knows exactly what to do next. Let it take up a little more space in your day. Let it shape your boundaries, your voice, your spine. A little fire each day is enough. Enough to reroute the trajectory of your life. Enough to make one clear choice. Enough to stop spinning in circles.
Maybe it starts with something small. Like deciding not to say yes to something out of guilt. Or telling the truth to someone, even if they won’t like it. Or finally moving on something your soul already signed off on months ago.
Maybe it’s simply this: I know what I want. I know what I need. I’m willing to act on that, even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if no one claps. Even if it goes against the script I’ve been handed.
Because is waiting really serving me?
I need to be honest.
And I need to be in motion.
And perhaps the most grounding reminder of all is this: in the Vedic tradition, Mars was born of the Earth. He is not above us. He is not an abstract sky god demanding performance. He is of the body. He is of the soil. He is of the belly and the bones. He lives in the place where your spine meets your truth.
And that means this: you don’t need to fight yourself to act. You don’t need to leave your body behind to make decisions. You don’t need to go faster or get louder to move. You just need to stop hesitating when your soul has already decided.
Because your Will already knows.
Mars is the part of you that finally listens.
And chooses anyway.
— understanding your Mars placement and its aspects can be incredibly revealing. However, when in doubt; listen to your body and harness the Martian fire.
An Ayurvedic Perspective: Tulsi Rose Milk
This calming, heart-clearing tonic cools excess pitta(mars), grounds the nervous system, and brings clarity back to the mind.
Ingredients:
1 cup oat milk or almond milk, or any milk of your preference (cooling and grounding)
1 tsp tulsi (holy basil) – calms the nervous system and balances pitta
1 tsp dried rose petals or 1/2 tsp rose water – softens heat in the heart and clears emotional residue
1/4 tsp cardamom – supports digestion without overheating
Optional: a few strands of saffron – deeply cooling and subtly uplifting
A small spoon of raw honey, added after heating (never cook honey in Ayurveda)
Instructions:
Gently warm the milk on low heat. Add tulsi, rose petals, and cardamom. Let it infuse for 5–7 minutes without boiling. Strain if needed. Stir in honey and saffron just before drinking. Sip slowly, while seated, without multitasking. A way to honor the direction you’re about to take.
