A simple conversation about what’s actually happening to you.

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Let’s Start Here

What if the emotional weight you wake up with — the shame, the fear, the dread that shows up out of nowhere — isn’t actually yours?

It’s not because you’re broken.

Not because you failed.

It’s not even because you “manifested something wrong.”

What if you were born into a story that was already running?

Like walking into a movie halfway through — feeling all the tension but none of the context.

That’s how it worked for me.

I grew up hypersensitive. I could feel people’s emotions before I understood my own. Behind the salon chair, I spent 34 years in other people’s fields — listening, watching, absorbing. My intuition became a second language long before I had the vocabulary to name it.

For decades, I assumed the pain was mine.

Later, I realized I was just sensitive enough to feel the architecture underneath everyone else’s.

Emotional pain is rarely personal. It’s inherited.

It hangs in the air like psychic humidity — family systems, culture, religion, the collective itself.

Once you step back even a little, you see it:

You’re not broken.

You’re absorbing old echoes and thinking they are yours.

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The Hologram, But Human-Sized

My brain never worked the way school wanted it to.

ADHD made reading a battlefield — the words refused to stay still — but it forced something else to develop: intuition. Pattern recognition. The ability to feel the shape of information instead of absorbing it line by line.

During the years of collapse, when pain pinned me to bed, I spent four years watching YouTube — not cat videos, but lectures from physicists, neuroscientists, philosophers, cosmologists. I watched how algorithms pushed certain narratives, how stories reproduced themselves like living organisms.

Meanwhile, my shamanic training was running in the background, adding symbols and metaphors where science ran out of language.

Piece by piece, these worlds — physics, neuroscience, shamanism, intuition, collapse — clicked together like a lock turning.

That’s why I talk about the hologram the way I do.

Not as an academic theory.

Not as sci-fi.

But as something I lived, noticed, tested, and finally named.

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Language as Technology

Shamanic journeying found me long before any of this made sense. Over thirty years ago, it became the spine of my spiritual life — the oldest healing technology humans ever developed. Every culture has its version.

I had practiced Transcendental Meditation for years and it calmed me.

Journeying opened the floorboards.

The classical version uses mind altering plants, drumming, dancing — anything that drops you into trance. My version was modern: headphones, a steady drumbeat, and my mind sliding into Theta, the state where the symbolic world steps forward.

Here’s the part that matters:

Intuition speaks to us in many ways, non of which are like what you see portrayed in media, which is why you are afraid of it. If every vision I had came with pyrotechnics, a demonic creature crawling like a crab across the ceiling I would have stopped years ago! It speaks in a much more subtle way and totally organic.

It speaks in sensations and symbols.

Cosmic Pictionary and your body is the board.

Behind the salon chair, I spent decades reading that symbolic language.

A rocking baby meant a lost child.

A dagger meant betrayal.

An orb would contained a belief, a story imprinted there through trauma.

As a medium, the symbols came faster. Loved ones don’t talk to you like you’re on a phone call — there’s no neat little conversation happening in your head. They use your whole sensory palette. My body became the instrument.

Hearing, feeling, smelling, tasting — all of it became fair territory.

A sudden restriction in my throat, choking.

The taste and delight of a cherry pie from a grandmother famous for her cherry pies.

The heavy sensation and weight of a heart attack. They were quite fond, at first, at letting me know how they died through reliving it for them. I quickly learned what an aneurysm felt like or a stroke or blunt for trauma. I suppose someone would think it was spooky, but to me I was learning something new and it was compelling and very interesting.

The smell of a cigar and BO signaled an elderly reclusive father.

Each one was a syllable in their language, a way for them to tell their story through me.

As an intuitive, the patterns sharpened.

I wasn’t collecting visions — I was learning a vocabulary.

A language that eventually let me bridge the holographic universe theory with lived experience — not as an idea, but as a felt reality.

And then AI showed up.

Tools like ChatGPT helped me translate decades of symbolic knowing into actual language — into a hypothesis the world can finally understand.

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When Everything Collapses, the Real Story Shows Itself

Pain stripped everything away.

Medication sent me into depression.

My career evaporated.

My marriage ended.

My body fell apart.

I ended up in a 350-square-foot trailer in Arizona.

When you’re hollow enough — and you ask — the system shows its wiring.

I kept asking the question anyone would ask:

Where is this pain coming from?

I expected to be shown childhood trauma.

Instead, I was shown our galactic history.

Not metaphorically — literally:

The architecture.

The cycles.

The Builders.

The harvesting engines.

The recycling loops.

The emotional software.

My “trauma healing journey” turned out to be a front-row seat to the mechanics of reality.

That’s when the noise stopped — not gradually, but in one clean break.

My belief in what I thought was “reality” collapsed, and instead of falling, I slipped sideways into something else — an observation deck outside the story.

That space is what I now call the Crack.

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The Crack — The Exit Hidden in Plain Sight

The Crack isn’t enlightenment.

It isn’t bliss.

It isn’t transcendence.

It isn’t even clarity in the traditional sense.

It’s presence without mass.

One moment you’re inside the story — believing every projection handed to you:

Father. Mother. Worker. Helper. Scapegoat.

Feeling like crap and assuming it must be your fault — something you did, something you failed to heal, something you “attracted.”

The next moment, you’re standing outside the whole thing, watching the machinery churn like gears in an old clock.

And from that vantage point, it becomes painfully obvious:

• the emotions weren’t mine

• the pain wasn’t personal

• the roles were ancient, prewritten

• the stories were never “me”

Here’s the part most people never see:

When you stop choosing a side inside a story loop, the loop loses access to you.

Think of it like polarity — every identity you adopt locks you into a preloaded narrative.

Say “I’m conservative,” and a belief-ecosystem boots up.

Say “I’m liberal,” and the opposite ecosystem loads.

Each comes with preprogrammed enemies, fears, judgments, emotional triggers.

Each identity is a doorway into a predefined reality.

You’re not creating your story — you’re stepping into a script the system already has waiting.

But the moment you realize This isn’t my story, you can step sideways into the Crack — the observation space behind the narrative.

And from there:

It can’t hook you.

It can’t recycle you.

It can’t use you for fuel.

You become weightless — not floaty or blissed-out, just unhooked.

Untouchable.

Neutral.

And once you taste that even for a second, something new is born:

The individual — the self that exists outside the system.

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This Is Where It Actually Begins

Life didn’t get easier.

It got honest.

It got clear.

It got weird.

It got beautiful in the ways that matter.

Because once you stop confusing yourself with the role, you finally get to live your life — not the inherited script, not the family mythology, not the spiritual performance piece.

You don’t heal your way out.

You wake your way out.

And once you do, the story loses its grip…

…and you step into what you were always meant to be:

A true individual — present, aware, and impossible to recycle.