I’ve spent a lifetime talking with the unseen, but it really started behind the salon chair — the perfect confessional — where intuition slipped in like radio static. I was a hairdresser for 34 years. I didn’t just color hair; I read people. Images would flare in their fields, symbols would surface, whole stories acted out through posture or silence. What began as hairdressing became training for psychic perception — the early boot camp for a life I didn’t know I was already living.
I don’t blame anyone for being possessed by their story. How could I? I grew up inside one too. My mother ruled our house like a tyrant — all punishment and no warmth. Home wasn’t refuge; it was emotional artillery fire. When love doesn’t live in the house, you look for it somewhere else, and I found mine in the invisible. I tried on every role I could: missionary, minister, seeker. Anything that could make the pain mean something. The calling was real — I just had to burn off the costume to find it.
The unseen always followed me. When I was ten, I accidentally conjured the spirit of Jack the Ripper in my cousin’s bedroom — an initiation no one should have on a sleepover. Later, I tracked a UFO home from Denver, read someone’s entire life from their jewelry, slipped out of my body, downloaded information that didn’t come from my mind, and met beings who rearranged everything I thought I knew about life and death. Shamanic journeying eventually became my map — part astral travel, part remote viewing, part ancient vocation: walking between worlds and bringing back something useful.
But the real initiation wasn’t mystical. It was collapse.
Chronic pain, betrayal, poverty — the full dismantling. My little park-model trailer in the desert became a monastery on wheels. A place to fall apart, burn down, and see what survived the fire. Out there, with nothing left, the pieces finally made sense. The hairdresser, the psychic, the skeptic, the wanderer — all of it was training for the moment the floor gave out and I slipped into the Crack.
I don’t tell this story to glorify suffering. I say it because I know how people get trapped. We don’t choose possession — we inherit it. The squid talks in our own voice. Trauma masquerades as identity. The loops come preinstalled. Nobody teaches you that almost everything you feel isn’t even yours.
I’ve lived every kind of torment I now help people step out of. I understand the swamp. I understand the barbs. And I understand how impossible it feels until a crack opens sideways and you see the story for what it is — not truth, but programming.
My work now comes from that vantage point: the Between.
The Crack.
I teach how story creates reality.
How emotion acts as code.
How freedom begins the moment you stop performing and start observing.
Not because I’m special — but because I got demolished and the demolition cleared the view.
Everything I’ve lived — the visions, the psychic training, the collapse, the fierce humor, the desert silence — was preparation for this role: a translator of the invisible who still knows how to speak human.
Here I am — still teaching, still laughing, still listening, still standing in the Crack translating what most people feel but can’t name yet.