I don’t know why I have always been so reluctant to share my intuitive gifts. I guess in some ways it is as simple as fearing ridicule, and not wanting to debate what is real in my life. Now, in my 37th year, it is time for me to come clean. I see how my gifts help people and give them comfort that there is more out there than what they can see. So here it is: I am a natural psychic medium.
What exactly does that mean, you might ask? Really all it means is that I know things before they happen. I see babies before they are born; I sometimes get messages from people who are no longer with us and most recently, I see people’s future love lives.
For the majority of my life it freaked me out, because I was taught that it should, but the older I got the more difficult it became to deny what was happening to me. As a young psychic I was enthralled with the community of healers and intuitive and psychic readers but as I got older it annoyed me. I hated how people, when finding out, wanted more than the truth. They only wanted the truth that suited them, so really, a lie. If I told them what I saw, they were never happy with the time frame, or the person, or the situation. As a people pleaser this became a serious conflict and so I decided that I wanted nothing to do with sharing my gift, and would only share it with a few of my closest friends.
This year changed: I changed. After accusing people of not surrendering to life I realized how guilty I was in not surrendering to my own life.
When my son was born I started getting migraines. As the years progressed so did the migraines. I am a firm believer in the power of healing our own bodies, but that does not necessarily mean we know how to heal our own bodies. It can take a long time for people to understand the emotions that connect us to our physical discomfort. I had already cured myself of Crohn’s disease (I will save that story for another blog), so why couldn’t I cure myself of my migraines?
Until three months ago I was having up to four severe migraines a month. My medication cost me $20 a pill with no medical insurance, and I was fed up with people trying to tell me how to cure my migraines. Did you drink enough water, did you meditate, and did you stop drinking coffee? The suggestion list was long and extremely frustrating. As a healer I could not understand why I could not control these migraines, and there lies the answer: Control.
My whole life had become about control. How do I control my financial situation, my son’s happiness, my partner’s happiness, my family’s worry for me, and my psychic abilities. As an Empath working in a social services environment I feel everything. I have to be very strict in learning how to let go of other people’s pain. I had just started a new job and three months in I was feeling caught up in a drama that really had nothing to do with me. Then it hit, I looked around the room and a simple thought filled my whole body. “I am not responsible for any of this!”
Sure, I am responsible for myself and how I react to situations but I am not responsible for how everyone else deals with the situation. My family, my friends, the people I had given readings to–I was not responsible for any of them. Just like that, my migraines went away. I surrendered and all the fear began to leave.
It has been three months since my last migraine. I am not naive enough to think they are gone forever, as much as I would like them to be, but I understand how by not surrendering I have been denying myself the gift of living an authentic life and sharing that knowledge with others.
Here is part two of an excerpt from my second book in the Dear Cole, Never Say Never, series. How I saw my mother’s stroke before it happened and the fear of understand my own intuitive abilities.
The weeks following Ottilia’s death were a blur. Our lives turned completely upside down but we worked together to hold each other up. I had not really cried over what had happened. It was as if my spirit had left my body in some way and I was on optimistic autopilot.
Every one of us clung on to our idea of normal. The 14 year old played basketball, the 16 year old kept to herself and quietly hung out with friends, the 18 year old immersed herself in her high school graduation activities, and the oldest daughter returned to Calgary. My brother became a shoulder for the girls to lean on; my mother took on her organizational role of caregiver, with her black book and calendar in hand. Dad did his best to accommodate everyone, and we all tried to make the sisters comfortable as they adjusted to their new lives. I became the front person to the press as they followed the story of Ottilia’s life and got a glimpse into her inspiring story through my documentary. I also took on the most familiar thing I knew, being a mom.
Prisca the three year old and I bonded right away. Having just raised a three year old only three years prior I spoke her language and she felt comfortable with the fact that Cole trusted me, giving her the green light for her to trust me as well. Being with Prisca reminded me of innocence in a time when we needed to remember it existed. I just prayed that her innocence would still be intact the day she remembered being in her mom’s arms as she passed away. No child should ever have to endure what all of Ottilia’s children did, losing both parents at once and witnessing horror. I was just so glad we had each other during that time, and amongst the craziness we tried to bring normalcy back into our lives.
My mother went out of her way to make our Easter a special one. That Easter morning you could feel the excitement of young children hanging in the air. Cole ran into Prisca’s room to wake her up, the Easter Bunny had arrived and Cole couldn’t wait for her to take part in the fun. I filmed them both as they ran to the living room to see all the delicious treats in their baskets. They hollered out to the rest of the house that there were baskets for everyone, including me. Running around the house collecting eggs in an Easter egg hunt, their joy rubbed off on all of us. I really felt like we were one big family that day and I was excited for our futures together. Little did I know at the time how short-lived the joy would last.
My mother was the queen of organizing. The job as the children’s guardian became her new career, which worked out perfectly seeing as she had to leave work on disability only two months before Ottilia died. My mother was not a healthy person, and neither was my father, but mom lived in pain eighty percent of the time. I watched her take on this job but I worried about her because she had yet to cry for her friend beyond the day she found out. As a spiritually conscious person I was aware of the repercussions of holding in such pain, but my mother is a stubborn woman and holding in pain had become a survival mechanism in her life.
For some reason, my psychic abilities were extremely strong during this time of transition. I had a vision of my boyfriend leaving, saying exactly the words he said to me as he left. I began seeing people and relationships enter my life in detail a week before they arrived. Then, as I drove up the street on my way to pick up Cole, I had a vision so horrible I had to pull the car to the side of the road. My mother was going to have a stroke and die.
As I sat on the side of the road, breathing heavy as my heart tried leaping out of my chest, all I could say out loud was, “NO.”
“This can’t be happening, it’s not real. I don’t really have visions, I’m making this up.” I tried rationalizing what I saw on every level, and then I had no choice but to let it go.
After being thrown unexpectedly into the world of singlehood at age 33, I befriended a young intuitive named Kyle. We began seeing each other and it was the first time in my entire life I ever experienced the synchronicity of thought and connectivity as I did with him. I was afraid of my gift before I met him, until one day he put it into a perspective that I needed to hear. Standing outside smoking a cigarette he breathed out, “Who cares! I mean we see things; we can’t do anything about it. It happens whether we like it or not. Let it go!”
I will never forget the clarity I felt in that moment. In the world of new age wellness, or whatever you want to call it, I felt lost. I knew I had to live in this body, in this experience, but I didn’t know how to do that with the insight I had, never knowing when I was going to have a vision next.
That night Kyle and I went out dancing. After coming home to my place to talk until the sun came up, we finally crashed into sleep. Forty-five minutes later, the phone rang.
“Hello,” I responded, barely awake.
“Hi Honey.” My dad’s voice sounded way too calm on the other end of the phone. “Your mother had a stroke and is in the hospital. I’m going to need you to come to the house right away.”
My stomach dropped; the room felt small. I couldn’t breathe yet somehow I got out the response, “I’ll be right there!” I hung up the phone.
Immediately I went into a state of anger. “WHAT THE HELL! WHAT THE HELL, Kyle?! Why do we have this ability if we can’t do anything about it?”
I began gathering my clothes robotically, told Kyle what was happening, and bolted for my car. I arrived at my family’s house minutes later and my brother was there to fill me in.
Mom had been suffering from a migraine for days and at the same time was trying to deal with a situation with one of the girls. Seeing as we all grieve differently, mom was trying to get help for her, and that afternoon had arrived home from Port Hawkesbury hopeful. “Things are going to be different,” she said optimistically, “We are starting fresh and I feel great about everything.”
That night while having a cigarette mom knelt to the ground and knew that something was definitely wrong. “Call the ambulance!,” she demanded Chris.
Knowing that the ambulance lights and siren would trigger the girls and their post-traumatic stress in relation to the night they witnessed their mother’s murder, they requested the ambulance enter the house with lights out. They transported her to the Saint Martha’s Regional Hospital and watched as she wrenched her body in agony fighting the stroke; in limbo between life and death.
If there is anything I have learned over the past fifteen years it’s that nothing ever stays the same. I think when you are younger you will try so hard to fit into an idea of what you hope is acceptable. Finish high school, go to college, find a partner, fall in love, get married, buy a house, have a baby, and retire at 60. When you realize, like I did, that nothing turns out the way you ever anticipated, you essentially become free. This is not a negative, in fact, things in my life always ended up turning out better for me than I ever I envisioned. In my mother’s eyes, she has and will always want more for me.
Even though you are only seven I know you can sense the turmoil in my relationship with her. One day last week as we were driving down Main Street you empathetically said, “Mom, I am so sorry Nana makes you sad.”
It broke my heart that you felt this way and the only way I could describe it to you was, “Honey, Nana loves mommy so much that sometimes she squeezes her with love so tight mommy can’t breathe.”
It was so true. Mom fought for my life and when I was finally living it, it was never enough. All she saw was struggle and where she observed this “struggle” I always viewed it as opportunity to grow and learn. It drove her crazy. To everyone else my life was deemed successful. I may not be a millionaire, yet, but I followed my passion, experienced abundance every day with friends, family, health, and career. Isn’t that what she wanted for me?! In the end our mother-daughter adult relationship was on the treadmill of impossible and I felt like I was screaming into the wind.
No matter what I did she just couldn’t see that she had succeeded in giving me a life I loved. I had defeated, “Never.” I graduated from high school and university, I’m seizure free, I taught in Korea, I studied in the rainforest, I am an award winning documentary filmmaker and artist, I have an amazing child who I love and support, I run a successful business, people respect me, and most of all, I am happy and healthy, enabling me to enjoy these victories. It didn’t matter, in her eyes I was always struggling financially, in love, and in life.
Cole I am not writing this to put my mother down; in fact it’s the other way around. I want you to know that every concern she has ever had for me was because she wanted me to have the best, always. Her actions were, and continue to be, out of love.
The night I went into the emergency room to say goodbye to her was the moment it all became clear. Everything she had ever taught me prepared me for the months that lie ahead, and my ability to accept change kept you and I strong in the face of radical transformation.
The drive to the hospital was long and silent. I had no idea what to expect. When I reached the end of the corridor I pushed open the doors to the intensive care unit and immediately recognized my aunts who were circled around my mother’s bed. Their eyes looked innocent; you could see the fear for their sister prominent in their expressions.
My brother went up to mom first and held her hand whispering words of encouragement softly in her ear. Chris went from thirty-seven to a vulnerable child in the presence of his dying mother. My heart broke watching him try to hold it together as mom wrenched in pain. The sight of her made the moment real. Her leg constantly reaching to the sky in muscle spasms, and her face was contorted on one side and paralyzed on the other.
I went over to her bed and sat close. I couldn’t help but observe that our roles were now reversed. She whispered, but I couldn’t understand her. She whispered again, this time I heard her. “Kill me!” she asked through mucus and distortion. “Kill me, please!”
My heart sank. I knew the kind of pain that came with a demand like that one. I trembled at the memory of it and empathy pains plagued my heart.
“I can’t mom, this is not my choice.” I responded hoping she would understand on an intuitive level what I meant. “Only you can choose and whatever that choice may be, I support you.” I squeezed her hand. She stared into my eyes and for the first time in my entire life I felt that she actually understood me. I had to have faith that she did.
Time crept by that night as my mother fought for a life she was not sure she wanted anymore, but fight she did. Mom lived, but life as we knew it died in that emergency room and as the sun rose we faced our new beginning…again.