I have a confession to make.

When the channel 5 newscaster with the beehive hairdo nonchalantly told me last week that I’m a Gemini, she might as well have told me I was adopted.

Whoa, I thought. This woman gets paid to break the news nicely, to smile at the happy endings and sigh at the stories of robberies and shootings. Where is her sensitivity for those voracious horoscope readers that she’s just knocked the wind out of? The ones who buy into even the most irrelevant and outrageous forecasts and swear that our entire lives are ruled by the stars?

Of course, not everyone falls under that category. There are masses of cynics who would rather light their hair on fire than be pinned to a Zodiac sign. I know quite a few of those people, but when this piece of astrology news broke, even they shifted in their chairs, cocked their heads and said, “So, I’m a Taurus?” Or, even worse, “So, I’m an … Ophiuchus?”

No matter what side you fall on, the believers or the skeptics, we all have one thing in common now: confusion.

As college students, bewilderment is possibly the single most familiar state of mind. There’s not one part of our identities that is stagnant or steady.

We pick out new addresses every year, and our tastes in music change every other day.

We’ve signed up for a four-year-long test drive, spending each moment trying to label our inclinations in hopes of uncovering our true selves. Are we bookworms or elite video gamers? Jukebox dictators or barstool bums? Fast walkers or dawdlers? Is it possible to be all of the above?

Inside our heads are endless interrogations. With ourselves. About ourselves.

But we never thought the constellations, of all things, would be as wobbly as we are. I’ve always been a Cancer, a moody crab with generous but materialistic tendencies, but now I’m a Gemini — a superficial twin in love with the sound of my own voice.

Maybe astrology is just a load of garbage, but if that’s the case, then why does this feel like an identity crisis?

Because it is.

Being young is one big identity crisis, and although crisis seems like the wrong word for such a fun time in our lives, it really is just that. The rug is constantly being pulled from under our feet, the compass needle fluctuates along with our faith, and the only sturdy branch we can hold onto is that of uncertainty.

And, yes, even those silly horoscopes on the last page of our magazines are now switched up and diluted to a brand new point of irrelevance.

Now that I’m done grieving the old Zodiac, I can see that I’m not a crab, or anything else on that wheel; I’d merely been conditioned to think I was.

I used to swallow up every word astrologists laid out for me, alarmed at their in-depth knowledge of me, a complete stranger, thinking my new understanding would arm me with the right to declare, “This is just how I am.”

As it turns out, claiming the inevitability of our faults and annoying habits is just a way of dodging the truth: We can change.

We all woke up last week with a different Zodiac sign, didn’t we? What makes us think anything about us is set in stone?

If I’ve gathered anything from all the astrology hype, it’s that the only true stuff ever written about us will be in our biographies when we are old and wrinkly.

Forget newscasters, astrologists, crabs, twins, lions and centaurs — everything that might make the book someday is up to us, and only us.