A contemplative woman stands in a natural landscape as subtle luminous energy emerges around her, suggesting an unexpected encounter with the intangible.

I Came to Mediumship Unwillingly

Higher Heart Warrior Musings

September 02, 2026•6 min read

I Came to Mediumship Unwillingly

Part 1: The Experiences I Couldn’t Explain Away

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If I’m honest, I came to mediumship unwillingly.

There was a time in my life when I thought mediumship was bullshit.

At one point I believed death was it.

There was no heaven or hell or afterlife. I thought those things were the imagination of people trying to find comfort in such an immensely uncomfortable unknown. I thought heaven and hell had been made up by religions to scare people into being decent while they were alive.

I believed that anything science, or at least the mainstream and pop science I was aware of at the time, couldn’t explain needed to be empirically proven in order for it to be valid. Or at least in order for it to be worth consideration.

What helped shift that perspective over time was something I learned about energy. Energy — the kind in our cells as well as the kind involved in creating planets — doesn’t cease to exist. It simply changes form. That realization helped me begin to bridge the gap between the physical and the spiritual. The body may expire but the soul that was embodied simply changes its presentation. Its form. The way it’s expressed.

The funny thing is, that didn’t mean I had never experienced anything I couldn’t explain.

I had supernatural or otherworldly experiences as a kid.

I just didn’t have the language or point of reference to understand them. I also didn’t have the ability to accept those experiences as valid or as something I didn’t need to be scared of because they were so different from anything anyone around me talked about or shared.

So, there were things I had experienced and things I believed.

And the two didn’t always fit together.

A solitary figure stands in a twilight landscape as subtle light and ethereal forms blend into the surrounding sky.

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When I was around 18, I had an experience that stayed somewhere in the back of my mind even after I tried to put it away.

It wasn’t actually my first experience of this kind. But it was the one that hit closest to home.

Someone who had been a maternal figure to me was in the ICU with terminal cancer.

I had a dream about her, except it didn’t feel like the dreams I was used to having. I rarely had a clear view of faces in my dreams — usually just figures or a sense of knowing who someone was by how they felt. This was different.

It was like I was standing in front of her. Or rather, she was standing in front of me.

It felt like I was awake inside the dream.

There was immense sadness — I was sad and crying, if I recall correctly — but somehow those emotions felt muted enough that I was also able to register the love and comfort and peace.

That’s what it was. She was at peace. And it was like that peace was radiating off her to me. Like she was trying to let me know she was at peace and that although I wasn’t able to see it then, I would eventually be okay without her.

At the time I wasn’t really prepared to consider what that experience could mean. My subconscious wouldn’t allow me to explore what it would mean if it was real. Accepting another explanation would have required me to reconsider my entire worldview — how I saw the world, my place in it, my grasp on reality. I wasn’t ready.

So, I chalked it up to my imagination and moved on.

Was it my imagination?

Was it a coping mechanism my mind created to deal with immense grief?

Was I tapping into something intangible?

Almost 20 years later I can’t say for sure. But a part of me always wondered.

Now I also understand that more than one thing can be true at the same time. Even if the experience helped me cope with grief, that doesn’t necessarily negate the experience. And given the experiences I had afterward that weren’t related to me and therefore weren’t about me coping with anything, I also wonder whether the grief and the immensity of it was a catalyst that opened a door that I had sealed shut — or that had been sealed shut — since I was a kid.

Soft light fills a quiet room, creating a peaceful, dreamlike atmosphere suggestive of comfort, grief, and an intangible presence.

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The experiences didn’t stop there.

Over the years I lost a few more people I loved and had visitations from them in my dreams and other more visceral experiences in my waking life. At a certain point I had to come face to face with the idea that I might have a connection I wasn’t sure was safe to have. Was it a sign something was wrong with me? Was I simply making it all up?

Eventually there were interactions with my grandfathers, whom I had never met because they passed before I was born. What made those interesting was that there were details I could go back and confirm after the fact — and they were correct. That helped build my confidence in the accuracy of the messages I was receiving. But those experiences were still mostly about me — support, assurance, or family dynamics connected to me directly.

Then I received a message that was different.

It was about protecting family land in Morocco from encroachment.

The message had been coming for days. I ignored it at first — thinking it was my imagination, or something I had conjured up to make myself feel special. But the prompts kept coming. Not just in meditation. From random sources outside of it too. Eventually I gave in.

At the time I hadn’t been to Morocco in over a decade and had no connection to what was happening there. I didn’t know who in my extended family was still living on or caring for the land, I didn’t know anyone was using the land without permission, and I had no idea that herders had been allowing their animals to feed on the argan trees, diminishing the crops.

And yet that was the case.

I relayed the message as a question. I was met with confusion — why was I asking about this when I had never shown any interest in it before?

A day or so later the look of fear and unsettled awe told me everything.

There had been something to it.

That experience was profound for me because this wasn’t simply a message related to me or my own family dynamics. It had to do with an external issue affecting my grandfather’s legacy that I hadn’t the slightest clue was happening.

How could I have known to ask about something I had no information about, no connection to, and no reason to think about?

I couldn’t have.