The Bravest and Scariest Thing I’ve Ever Done: Coming Out of the Spiritual Closet
“By becoming self-aware, you gain ownership of reality; in becoming real, you become the master of both inner and outer life.”
Often I’ve been told…. “You don’t look or act like a psychic.”
Where the hell does it say, that for you to be a medium psychic, that it requires you to alter your appearance? Do I have to suddenly become a turban-wearing hippie who smokes a little too much ganja? Or even a nomad gypsy prepared to reveal the crystal ball hidden under her colorful billowing skirt?
Coming out of the spiritual closet, after 18 years as a cosmetologist in the world of beauty and superficiality, was harder than a face off with my alcoholic father. I felt like I was back in seventh grade, trying to figure out which identity to wear to be in the cool crowd. As a sensible 31-year-old, authenticity was the game I had to play made up by society’s preconceived ideas of what a medium psychic should be like.
So then I started soul searching ...
Which box do I belong to, when I don’t fit in any? Could it be the Lululemon-wearing yogis? The peace-loving, no war sects? Or the crystal-embossed psychics? I got one for you: how about none. When I was in my beginning stages of entertaining my uncanny gifts, in 2013, I fought an inward battle that questioned my sanity.
“Fuck! Do I need to be institutionalized?” However my rational self answered back confidently — “No. you’re not the first Medium Psychic. Get over yourself.” I know how this all sounds. Is this bitch crazy? Am I? I have to be, right? Why would I jeopardize a rational, financially stable, successful business?
But fact is, I’ve been seeing ghosts since I was seven years old…
I had woken up in the middle of night for a bathroom visit but was paralyzed in fear as I watched a ghost bending over my three-year-old brother Rex. He was in deep sleep—filling the space with his baby snores next to me. I shut my eyes with all my might, praying the entire thing away when all of a sudden Rex’s cries validated the episode of ghost encounters.
“Whaaahhhhhh!” his shrill song of I-am-bothered-cries pierced my ears and with eyes closed, I shushed him gently with a tap in the butt. SILENCE—immediate silence—as easy as turning off a tap. I waited it out, maybe five minutes then I unglued my right eye to peek out into the darkness. Swoosh—her faced rushed into mine and I came face to face with the the woman. I have no recollection of what happened next, only that I woke up in the morning and begged my father to leave his childhood home.
As I got older, I kept telling myself that it was all my imagination but it kept happening and the experiences with the spirit world intensified.
First I was just able to see them, then they were able to see me too, then it progressed to them trying to speak with me and by the time I was in my 20’s they were physically moving and touching things around me.
It was the middle of the day and I was enjoying the pressure of my shower massaging my scalp in my one bedroom apartment. Then I heard a knock on my hollow wooden door. I turned my shower off and asked aloud, “Who’s there?” I heard nothing but got out to open it anyway to reveal no one. As soon as I went back into the shower, I heard my kitchen cupboards and drawers opening and closing as if someone was cleaning or about to make a meal. The next day I got home and when I flipped the living room light on, my entire apartment lit up … only to plunge into darkness a second later. The distinct ‘plink’ of a light bulb bursting caused me to jump from the threshold to the couch across the room landing on my brother PJ.
I yelled at him, “Told you! Something is here!”
He shook his head and answered. “I believe you.”
That night I asked my boyfriend, Madsin, to sleep over because now I know that I am not crazy. He agreed and at two am I woke up sensing someone or something behind me. A hefty man with a plaid shirt paired with corduroy pants sat indian-style speaking in gibberish at me. His hands were flailing around emphasizing every unintelligible world. I told him, “I can’t understand you.” But it seemed to make him angry and he continued to play charades with me. Terrified, I shook by boyfriend awake and whimpered. “He’s here. Wake up.” He finally came to his senses and asked. “What’s going on?”
I pointed towards the ghost but he just said, “There’s no one there, babe.”
I began to cry and he wrapped me into his arms. As my tears continue to fall, he said aloud. “Look, you are scaring her. Whatever it is you’re trying to tell her just show her.
Immediately, my closet door began to shake and the doorknob rattled as if trying to open from the inside.
“He wants you to open the door,” Madsin said.
“No! Please, you do it,” I said.
Madsin got up and opened the door then hopped right back in the bed. We both watched as footprints imprinted themselves on the carpeted floor towards my bedroom door. Now the doorknob shook.
We did the same and let him out. I moved out the next week.
I can’t keep going like this I thought to myself. I just can’t keep pretending and running away. The decision to find someone that can help me understand this world was non-negotiable. It wasn’t going away and living in fear wasn’t an option. I'd be damned if I let anyone—dead or alive—dictate the way I live.
After hours, staring at the insensitive computer screen—mocking me each time I typed positive psychic, mediumship readings, ghost therapy, into google, I found my way to a blog page that recommended “the psychic pathway” by Sonia Choquette.
I hit the jackpot! Sonia based her work on angels. I didn’t even know that was possible and this discovery made the little Catholic girl in me dance. My journey continued on the angelic path while also gathering spirit guides, ascended masters, archetypes, astrology, light workers, and spiritual mentors along the way.
My daily exercise of doggy paddles in the pool of spirit eventually became a bona fide breast stroke and I swam confidently into the ocean of spirit. Bit by bit, fear reduced to wonder--this ability is a gift and not a curse. Isn't it wonderful that I am able to help communicate messages from the other side to their love ones? To alleviate the grief that has grasped tightly on someone’s heart from their love one passing?
I wasn’t alone, and there are communities willing to show me the light of this work and not abuse it. I finally felt like I was home. That I belonged, rather than being told it was wrong from my religious upbringing—the Vatican itself has its own department of mediums—look it up.
Fear crept up from time to time, trying to choke out my newfound spiritual freedom, but Salon Crimson, my business in New Jersey, continued to flourish.