One of the next great challenges in my life came not from my family, but from my peers. Friends I had known for years began to see me differently. It wasn’t dramatic or sudden—no arguments, no clear endings—but a quiet drifting apart. As I grew, my decisions no longer mirrored theirs. Instead of feeling closer and more heartfelt, we found ourselves separated by fundamental differences: beliefs, ways of seeing the world, religion, politics, moral integrity, self-awareness, and levels of honesty. What surprised me most was how much this separation revealed about myself.
As I looked back, I realized that when I was younger, I had learned to lie—very well. It began as a way to protect my parents, especially my mother, from worrying about the life I was creating away from home. I became skilled at telling only what felt safe, cushioning stories about men and relationships so they wouldn’t cause alarm or anger. At the time, I saw these as “little” lies, necessary ones.
I didn’t understand then how deeply this habit would affect my relationships later in life.
Because I learned early what worried my mother and where her weak points were, I also learned when to speak and when to stay silent. Over time, that silence became its own form of dishonesty. Not in matters of integrity—I have always kept my word, been financially honest, and trustworthy—but in emotional truth.
I became adept at presenting only what felt acceptable.
I was fortunate in many ways. I was popular in school and throughout much of my life. People were drawn to my humor—something deeply rooted in my family, where both my parents were practical jokers who loved to laugh and help others see the lighter side of life. Laughter is healing, and I could often spot humor where others could not.
I also had a strong instinct to help. My years in nursing grew from that impulse. If someone was in trouble, I wanted to be there. If I was asked to do something, I often put my own needs aside and said it was fine—even when it wasn’t. I would pretend I had nothing else to do, just to help someone or to keep a friendship steady.
Somehow, it felt worth it to keep the heart connection intact.
What I didn’t see at the time was how these “small” untruths were harming my own heart and well-being. They left me chronically short of time for myself. I gave and gave, believing I could always make it work. And somehow, I usually did.
Only now, later in life, can I see how much I short-changed myself. How much of my time and energy I gave away. This year, I feel a strong call to reclaim that time—to let it come back to me. Some days I question my progress, but I still believe in myself, and I keep moving forward.
When COVID arrived, I felt something unexpected: relief.
Suddenly, I didn’t have to please anyone. I didn’t have to run around helping, fixing, smoothing things over. I could simply be on my own. That pause gave me the space to take a deep dive into why I had lived the way I had. I began to see people because I wanted to, not because guilt compelled me.
That shift marked a significant turning point.
Today, I am fortunate to have friends who are big-hearted and compassionate—people willing to look honestly into deeper truths together. With them, sharing feels clean and mutual.
Throughout all these years, I have continued my work. For over 36 years, I have read charts, received information, and stayed connected to what many call “the other side.” Old clients still reach out from time to time. New ones come. Close friends who trust my work remain.
What I have noticed is that more and more people are opening to invisible realms. It feels as though the veil is thinning. I believe humanity is moving toward a new level of consciousness—one rooted in oneness rather than separation.
We have lived for thousands of years on a playing field of division. I believe we are now working through some of the final layers of that trauma. Eventually, separation will feel foreign to many of us. We will sense intuitively, and quickly, when something is not aligned with true oneness.
There are already powerful signs of this shift. Projects like The Telepathy Tapes and the work of Veda Austin offer compelling examples. They reveal how individuals—especially those on the autistic spectrum, long misunderstood—often carry a level of integrity, honesty, and consciousness that is profoundly whole.
These beautiful beings remind us that what we once labeled as “challenged” may, in fact, be deeply gifted.
And perhaps, in learning to see them clearly, we are finally learning to see ourselves.
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