Living in the Crack

Most people haven’t lived through emotional intensity like I have. Growing up with my mother—the way she was—being intuitive, empathic, clairvoyant—her illness wasn’t just difficult, it was torture in surround sound. Every mood of hers rippled through the house like weather: invisible, but absolute. When she smiled, the room brightened. When she turned, everyone braced. My nervous system learned to read micro-expressions faster than language. I could feel her before she entered the room.

That’s how I became clairvoyant—domestically trained telepathy. My survival depended on knowing what she felt before she did. And when you grow up that way, your intuition doesn’t switch off; it just widens. Later, as an adult, every client, every friend, every stranger’s field felt like a broadcast station I couldn’t quite tune out. I didn’t have boundaries; I was a receiver tower in human form.

When my awakening began, it didn’t feel like peace or light—it felt like demolition. Anger, grief, panic, the raw static of every story I’d absorbed since childhood. I had to burn through it all. Shamanic journeying helped. Sitting in darkness, letting the drum pull me into that dream-logic state, I began to see my own attachments as shapes, cords, or orbs lodged in my field. Each one linked to some unfinished emotional loop: my mother’s rage, my father’s silence, lovers’ betrayals, clients’ grief. I wasn’t just living my life; I was carrying fragments of everyone else’s.

Most people don’t realize that’s happening. You think you’re steering your lives, you meditate, listen to inspirational speakers, maybe attend a church or have a spiritual practice but that sense of control is the comfort of autopilot. All of those systems were created within the collective story and therefore must be examined for false narratives that loop the believer back into the system feeling like failures and worse. The program runs itself and your life and as horrifying as it is, dictates most of your choices. They’re inside the collective narrative, thinking you are free because the story tells you that you are. You don’t notice the emotional feedback loops that dictate your choices—the inherited trauma, the cultural scripts, the marketing spells humming beneath your decisions.

When you finally step out of that stream, when you start living from the Crack, there’s a particular resonance—a frequency that hums through everything. It’s like standing between two worlds and feeling the pressure of both. The closest analogy I’ve found is that roller-coaster moment: locked in, halfway up the track, realizing you want off but can’t. The gears clank; your stomach clenches. Every instinct screams get me out of here. But beneath the panic is something else—excitement, anticipation, even wonder.

That’s the texture of the Crack. Fear and exhilaration wrapped around the same thread. You can’t tell if you’re about to die or finally come alive.

When I lost my career to chronic pain, I lived inside that feeling for years. One long roller-coaster climb with no guarantee of descent. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t plan. I could only listen. That’s when I learned that intuition speaks long before the mind catches up. Most of the chatter running through our heads is back-feed—answers to questions we asked and forgot, or information passing through us from the stories we’re running for other people. We think it’s our anxiety. It’s not. It’s signal noise from the grid.

In Arizona, alone in the desert, the signal quieted. Without other people’s emotions crowding my field, I started to feel something subtler—my own baseline. That thin current of knowing beneath everything. At first it felt like nothing. Then it became the compass.

You know you’re living in the Crack when that hum returns: the edge-feeling of terror and wonder, emptiness and presence, collapse and renewal at once. It’s like gravity and light folding together. You don’t know what’s coming next—there’s genuine fear in that—but you also sense that whatever happens will be exactly what needs to.

---

The Terror of No Preference

That feeling of terror in the Crack isn’t danger—it’s absence. It’s what happens when there’s nothing left to grab onto.

Most people live by preference. They chase pleasure, avoid pain, pick sides, build stories, and call it personality. The ego survives by choosing. But in the Crack, there’s nothing to choose. You stop engaging in other people’s narratives, and you stop inventing your own. That’s when the floor drops out. The ego can’t breathe without contrast, so it interprets neutrality as death.

That’s the terror.

At first it feels like free fall—like losing identity, control, even gravity. But underneath that collapse is something still, a knowing that doesn’t belong to the mind. That’s where awareness waits, unanchored but unshakable.

But here’s the part most people miss: you can’t bypass the ego—you have to battle it. You have to drag every belief into the light and interrogate it.
Every “I can’t” is a barb from the squid.
“I can’t leave this relationship.”
“I’m too old to start over.”
“At least this job pays the bills.”
“What would people think?”
Each one hooks into you with the logic of survival, but if you trace it back, you’ll find its source is never your own. Family. Religion. Capitalism. Culture. It’s all inherited code.

Doing that work feels like combat because it is. The ego fights for its life. It whispers, just stay invisible, it’s safer that way. But when you examine those lines one by one, when you sit with the sick feeling that comes from realizing how deeply you’ve been programmed, the cords start to burn through.

That’s when many people stop. The awakening gets too real. They think enlightenment is supposed to feel blissful—but mostly, it feels like demolition followed by stillness. You don’t feel connected to anyone, not even yourself, because the old connections were built out of false wiring. You feel alone, but that isolation is the decompression chamber between worlds. That’s the Crack.

It’s not a punishment—it’s re-entry.
The system is recalibrating.

Without preferences, you stop steering your life by fear and habit. You let go of the reins and allow whatever wants to manifest to do so. It’s terrifying at first because the ego thinks surrender equals extinction. But it’s actually how reality begins to self-assemble around your true pattern.

New-Age narratives sell bliss and perpetual serenity. The real thing is wilder than that. It’s raw anticipation—the body trembling before the next miracle, neither good nor bad, just alive.

The ego calls it chaos.
The Crack calls it creation.

So I let life bring what it wants to bring. I trust that whatever rises from this stillness is what the system actually wants to express through me. The fear never fully disappears—but it transforms. It becomes the pulse of aliveness itself.

That’s what tamed the ego—not dominance, not denial, but exposure. Sitting in the raw openness until it realized it wasn’t dying. It was dissolving.

And what remained was simple:
awareness watching life create itself.

---

Binding: The Thrill of No Choice

Speak this aloud when the ego wants control back.

I release the hand that clings to certainty.
I let the body tremble in the thrill of no choice.
I unbind the mind that insists it knows what comes next.
I dissolve the reflex to steer, to fix, to prove.
I surrender the ego’s need to rule this ride.
Terror and wonder—one breath, one current, one code.
I trust what moves without my command.
I allow what is already unfolding to complete itself.