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How I began connecting with the other side:

It wasn't until my mid-thirties that I discovered that I was a channel and soul connector...


I never imagined being a soul connector when I grew up. Even if my elementary school teacher had offered it as a choice of career options I still would have picked being a performer of some sort. I always thought people were born with the ability to connect with the other side or you weren't: there was no gaining access to this special gift even if you wanted to, thus when I began to receive messages in my late twenties, I ignored them, deciding I had made it all up. It wasn't until my mid-thirties when my next-door neighbor passed away that I couldn't deny it anymore. Within 48 hours of his passing I was sitting with his widow and young daughter sharing the messages I was seeing and hearing, clinging tightly to my own infant daughter who was nestled on my lap.

The first distinct memory I have of receiving a message from the other side was in my late twenties when a family friend took his own life. In high school he playfully called me big bird, referring to my six foot lanky frame that I had yet to become comfortable living within. Right after his death, I kept hearing "big bird"over and over again as though someone was whispering my name. Despite my many attempts to find where it was coming from, I couldn't see anyone and chose to disregard it altogether. Just then an image appeared of a hand placing money under a mattress. It was as though I was dreaming while wide awake with the image not appearing through my physical eyes but almost floating at my third eye center. Although my mind tried to fight the urge to share what I had seen, it was as though an invisible force within me texted my stepmom to tell her. She was close with his wife and passed along the message. Subsequently, his wife wanted to speak to me to hear more but I denied the request writing it off as a dream and nothing more.




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A few years later, my best friend's brother-in-law suffered cardiac arrest at only 35 years old and went into a coma. The instant I heard the news, I knew he would never wake up. I tried to push the thought out of my head, to imagine him coming home to his young children, but it was as if my whole body could feel that his life was complete. During his time in a coma, I began to hear his voice, not through my ears as you would typically hear something but instead right above them, his distinct accent clear.

"Tell her I'm going to be okay and I love her" I heard over and over again, any time I had a moment of silence. When I leaned more into what “okay” meant, the clear knowing passed through my heart that he meant he would be okay on the other side and that he would pass soon. An image of yellow flower petals floated in front of me as the words poured in: "Tell her to look for the yellow flowers, they'll always be from me."

Once again, my mind yelled at me to put this imagination aside, but this deep whole body knowing took over as I shared these messages with my best friend. She told me that I was just remembering that their wedding flowers had been yellow roses. I wracked my brain trying to remember what had been on the tables of their wedding I had attended nearly eight years before."Maybe," I replied, not wanting to push anything forward that wasn't welcome especially when I had no grounds for understanding it myself. Although the messages kept coming, I replied to the empty air that I couldn't do anything with them and heard: "Don't worry one day you will."

After his passing, I allowed the memories of these experiences to fade as I tended to my small children and tried to imagine a job for myself that would allow me to feel fulfilled, be my own boss and work part time. My ideas all surrounded retail as that's what my resume listed but nothing felt right. As I was watching stories on Instagram one day while holding my sleeping infant, I had a strong urge to reply to a story of one of my old retail coworkers. We soon began chatting and she opened up to me about her struggles in her marriage. I wanted to help so I kept checking in on her. Less than a week later, her father passed away suddenly. My heart dropped as I tried to imagine what I could do to support her.

That evening while taking a bath, alone for the first time all day, I heard a man's voice coming in above my ears and I instantly understood why I had been urged to reconnect with her. As much as my mind didn't want to relay the messages, they kept coming through and my shaky hands typed out on my phone to her: “Sometimes I hear things right when people pass away.”

I asked if she would like to hear what I was experiencing, making sure to preface it with, “I’m not certain of any of it.” She was very open which allowed a few clear messages to come through about how much he loved and missed her, yet nothing felt incredibly significant. Then I heard, "Tell her to hug her pillow like it's me tonight."

"Nope," I replied out loud. "I already sound like a crazy person. I am not saying that.”

"Please tell her, she needs to hear it."

After the message played over and over again above my ears despite the distractions of my little ones, I finally typed it quickly on my phone and hit send, my cheeks burning red as I imagined her utter confusion at what I had written.

Hours later, I allowed myself to open her response, my heart pounding.

"Oh my god, that's exactly what he always used to say," she had typed.

My eyes went wide, pricked with tears. I reread her response over and over again.

I'm not making this up, I allowed myself to realize for the very first time and the dread that had been weighing me down slowly began to dissipate.

His messages continued to come through over the next couple weeks and I would text her when they did, her gratitude softening my heart more and more each time I read her replies. Yet, at the same time, I enjoyed the quietness of these interactions and had no intention of telling anyone else about them, even my own husband. It felt better to just let it stay our little secret, and, as the messages began to fade over time, my focus returned solely to surviving motherhood with an infant and a toddler.

As we returned from our first family a trip a month or so after the messages had dissipated, I heard a male voice again while I was in the shower and assumed it was him.

"Tell Steven he's like a brother to me."

Still sopping wet, I texted her with what just felt like another message coming through from her dad. And yet her instant reply was that she couldn't think of a single Steven her father had known, especially one that would be close enough to be like a brother.

That's strange, I thought, questioning again if I had just made it all up, the tightness in my throat thickening as I stood still half dry, hoping she would find a connection that would make me feel less crazy.

The next day I learned that my next door neighbor had passed away the night before, and although his name wasn't Steven, I soon would learn who he was.

To be continued next week in my newsletter!

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