Remembering the Place Where Worlds Touch
- Nov 18
- 5 min read
The House Where the Veil Thinned
When we moved from California to Wisconsin, I didn’t understand that a child can feel a place before they can name it.
California had been bright, expressive, unbothered.
Wisconsin was small, cold, uniform — a town where difference felt like a threat people politely smiled at.
And because my grandfather was the pastor of the only church, my every move was already under a microscope.
California had let me be a child.
Wisconsin required me to perform.
The Storm That Marked the Shift
Shortly after we moved, a storm rolled in — the kind that makes the whole sky hold its breath.
I remember standing at the window, watching clouds funnel and twist, and thinking for the first time in my life:
“Did I do this?”
It wasn’t fear.
It was recognition.
The storm felt connected to me — not caused by me, but responsive, like it knew my emotional state.
The next day at school, I heard a tornado had torn through town, destroying homes.
I had watched it happen in real time.
I didn’t panic then.
I panicked after.
There was a guilt I didn’t understand yet —a seed planted deep in my body that whispered:
“Your energy affects the world more than you know.”
This guilt would follow me for years, shaping how I understood power, storms, and myself.
Sleepwalking & the Unseen
Around this time, I started sleepwalking.
I wasn’t restless.
I wasn’t dreaming.
I was reacting.
The house wasn’t empty.
The nights weren’t quiet.
The veil in that place was thin enough to feel breathing.
The spirits weren’t malicious — not yet — but they were there, brushing up against my sense of safety.
My body moved before my mind understood.
The Fear Imprint — How a Child’s Sight Became a Sin
Everything shifted when I dressed my Julie doll for Halloween and my grandmother said:
“Don’t do that. You’ll attract demons. They’ll suck the life out of you.”
One sentence.
One moment.
That was the day my spiritual sight became something to fear instead of something I simply had.
Before that, spirits were just… present.
After that, they were threats.
I slept with a bunny held over my mouth for years, convinced it kept my soul inside my body.
This wasn’t fear taught by spirit.
This was fear taught by humans who didn’t understand spirit.
The Church Attempts to “Fix” Me
My family didn’t know what to do with a child who saw what I saw.
They were afraid of me, though they’d never say it out loud.
So they did the only thing they knew:
They handed me to the church.
Suddenly, I was:
forced into Wednesday night services
forced into Sunday morning services
monitored for “demonic influences”
told my gifts meant something was wrong with me
told I needed Jesus to “close the doors”
warned that spiritual sensitivity meant spiritual danger
filtered through Bible verses and fear
My music became “unsafe.
”My TV shows “invited spirits.
”My friendships “needed approval.
”My gifts “needed praying away.”
Nobody asked what I was actually experiencing.
Nobody asked how I felt.
Nobody asked if I was okay.
They only asked how to fix me.
But I wasn’t broken.
I was awakening.
The Man Who Hung Himself — Discernment Begins
Not all spirits felt the same.
The shadows that came at night were unsettled, drifting, half-aware.
But he was different.
The man who hung himself in our house decades before we arrived.
He didn’t hide.
He didn’t lunge.
He didn’t haunt.
He had a routine.
A rhythm.
A presence that was human, familiar, almost comforting.
I smelled his cherry cigar before I saw him — a scent that became a strange anchor in the house.
He wasn’t dangerous.
He wasn’t predatory.
He wasn’t demonic.
He was simply there.
And witnessing him taught me my first true spiritual law:
Not all spirits are the same.
Discernment matters.
Fear programming blinds, but sight reveals.
Hecate Arrives — Not as Goddess, but Mother
This is when She came.
Not in rituals.
Not in fire.
Not in titles.
She came as comfort.
As presence.
As someone who understood me when the adults around me didn’t.
I didn’t know her name then.
I only knew her warmth, her energy, her knowing.
She showed up when I was frightened.
She sat with me when I felt alone.
She held the space my actual mother couldn’t reach.
She wasn’t a deity to me yet.
She was my mother in the dark.
And she didn’t silence my gifts — she validated them.
The Dreams: Where Birth and Death Spoke First
This is when the dreams began:
Dreams of death that weren’t literal, but energetic.
Dreams of pregnancy that used my body to show someone else’s timeline.
Dreams that came as warnings, mirrors, signals.
I told my mother she needed to check on my grandmother after one of those dreams — but it was my grandfather who passed.
I didn’t know yet that dreams speak in vibrations, not faces.
And then came the dream that changed everything:
I was pregnant.
Alone.
Carrying a boy I couldn’t see — only feel.
This was the only dream that arrived years early.
I was in third grade.
It wasn’t imagination.
It was Malachi entering my timeline.
A soul contract making itself known long before life caught up.
Closing Reflections
Childhood gifts don’t always arrive gently.
Sometimes they awaken in the middle of storms, in small towns that don’t understand us, or in families who fear what they can’t explain.
But even in the chaos, there are truths worth remembering:
✨ Gifts often awaken during emotional or environmental upheaval
✨ Fear of spiritual sight is usually human-taught, not spirit-taught
✨ Not all spirits feel the same — discernment matters
✨ You cannot pray away a calling
✨ Guides come in the form children need, not the form adults expect
✨ Dreaming in energetic signatures is a valid psychic language
✨ Soul contracts sometimes appear decades before they activate
✨ Family responses to gifted children often create shame, not safety
✨ Suppression does not silence gifts — it only twists them until they find air again
As you sit with this chapter, I invite you to reflect on your own beginnings:
Where did your gifts first stir?
What did you know before someone told you to fear it?
What part of you was already awake, long before you had the language for it?
Today, we pause the teaching.
Some memories aren’t meant to be analyzed — they’re meant to be felt.
For members, the companion poem holds the frequency of this moment —the day the threshold appeared,
the day the veil breathed soft,
the day a goddess stepped into a child’s life.
