Is this psychic for real?

How mediums + mysticism have changed my relationships

Today’s essay is longer than usual. If you stick around to read it, I hope you find the beauty of wonder. You can hear me read today’s piece by clicking on the article voiceover. Send this essay to a friend, if you think it’s worth sharing. If you’re new here, you can subscribe to receive my newsletter a couple Fridays a month.

sunrise hike in Sedona

I’ve seen 3 psychics in the past 3 months. I am:

a) clearly having a mid-life crisis.

b) looking for answers in weird places.

c) in need of a reality check.

d) curious and open-minded.

You can decide the answer at the end of this essay.

I’ll begin by telling you about the psychic I saw most recently in Sedona, Arizona, home of the vortexes, where red rocks blanket the land and scrape the sky, where energy swirls around, and everything happens for a reason.

My friends and I drove 8 hours across Cali and into 100-degree heat to see some mystical folks who can “tap in.”

A bit of a sceptic lives in me, I wear it like an invisible badge wherever I go and it keeps me grounded. But, like Ky Dickens says in the podcast I am currently OBSESSED AND ENGULFED IN — called The Telepathy Tapes — I embrace an open mind.¹

The day before our readings, I was advised to start thinking on what I wanted to talk about with Missy, a psychic recommended to me by a good friend. I grabbed my pencil to write specific questions and topics in my journal: stuff about my marriage, going to grad school, what I should do next for work, among other topics.

But the universe (or spirit, as Missy called it) had other plans.

First, we talked about my mom. OK, spirit, not one of my approved topics. But, alas, we went on. We chatted about my sisters and birth order. I joked about how I was the baby that came 8 years later and was probably an accident. She knew about a boy in our family and I told her that before my parents had me they were in the process to adopt a nephew but it fell through.

And then.

Missy looked up a few inches above my head, then back down at me. “Your dad is here,” she said.

GAH. Also not what I wanted to talk about. I knew Missy describes herself as a medium but I did not have plans to talk to dead people that day.

She paused, looked up again, then her blue eyes looked into mine.

“Your dad said he is here whether you want him to be or not.”

Dad was always dominating the room.

I sighed, “I wasn’t ready for this” and I wiped the first few tears from my cheeks.

She started off by saying something that did not sound like dad. He was apologizing. He said sorry he did not know how to express love to me. He was too busy trying to be in control. I scribbled words in my journal, wiping away wet from my face, as she recited emotions he felt: shame, regret, guilt and embarrassment.

He heard our banter earlier and made a clarification. He said I was always wanted — and not an accident.

I look up at the fluorescent lights to try and stop the tears but it was no use. I was eager for more details.

I asked about his time fighting the war for the US Navy in Vietnam, something I’ve been wondering about lately since I’ve been reading more on the war.

“He said there’s nothing for you to know,” Missy said.

That’s what dad always said. Missy added that dad said all I’ve read and seen, it’s all that and so much worse.

She then told me this. “I asked your dad if he is at peace.”

I look at Missy, with her short gray hair swept to the side, and she said, “he’s going like this…” She shrugged her shoulders, pursed her lips and slightly tilted her head. It was the body language of uncertainty, of him saying, no, not really, he’s not.

My chest turned hot.

This gesture struck me. It struck me because I didn’t think this was a possibility. When my dad died in 2008 of lung cancer, from 20 years of smoking and several years of Agent Orange exposure in Vietnam, I just assumed he’d be at peace.

I didn’t ever think of this option. I assumed he was no longer in pain from his illness, he’s no longer living with the anger he felt in his lifetime. I guess I assumed he was fine wherever his soul existed.

---

My feelings for my dad shifted in the last few years. I have learned to leave the resentment, with the help of various therapies, being a parent myself, and understanding the complexities of how much our past still lives with us no matter how much we try to shed it. I knew he grew up with abuse and poverty.

For a long time, I was mad at him, then indifferent, and then I just left him as is. As harsh as this may sound, my narrative about my dad has always been that I’m ok with him being dead.

I loved my dad. He was our family’s protector and provider, he was strong and determined, he was funny, and he pushed me to be my best. But he was very difficult to be around, I feared him, and I didn’t care to be around him. All these statements co-exist and are true.

As I’m sitting here in front of this stranger I just met, I’m taking all this in and wondering: Is dad not at peace because I’m not at peace with him?

Missy and I talked about how I’ve been doing a lot of work to heal myself. I’ve been focused on digging myself out of depression, guilt and shame.

I told her that, at times, I’ve felt selfish for working on myself but I justify it by believing that this isn’t just for me. Obviously, it’s also for my kids and the generations to come after them.

But this other prospect changed the way I think. In a workshop last year with ceremonial leader, Erika Gagnon, I learned that I may be alleviating the wounds from the generations before me. They call it ancestral work. It is the idea that I might be able to mend the hurt experienced by my parents, my grandparents, and the distant family I don’t even know, who, collectively, make up who I am.

I love this belief and so I am going with it. What if I am stitching up holes in the fabric of myself, my loved ones, and my ancestors?

---

After I grab more tissues, once again I’m not ready for the information Missy tells me next.

“Your dad wants you to do something for him,” she dutifully tells me as a messenger.

Oh god. What is it? I was nervous.

“He wants you to start talking to him.”

I was struck again. I told Missy this was weird for me. I didn’t know I could do such a thing. It was too abstract, scary, and a foreign concept. For all of my life, up to the day he died, on my 25th birthday, I did not desire talking to my dad.

I avoided my dad and, honestly, I preferred it. He was a man of few words, too. I said little around him, not wanting to give him fuel to judge me, to pick apart what I’m doing, or not doing. I didn’t want any more stuff to give to dad for him to be mad at me. The less I said meant the less likely I’d hear his disapproval.

But I thought of that ancestral stuff. The possibility of repairing others beyond just me.

And so.

I said ok.

She said when I go to sleep tonight, to have a conversation with him.

---

roars + red rocks

Post readings, my friends and I continued our adventures.

We stocked up on crystals, tarot and oracle decks, as one does in Sedona. We sat at a tea shop and chatted. We enjoyed the red rocks around us, had a lovely hike in our neighborhood, spotted adorable pig-looking creatures called javelinas, and pointed out all the unique spiky cactus, marveling at the sights and sounds in the middle of our vortex.

I forgot about my connection with Missy by the time my head hit the pillow in my Airbnb bed. But just before I fell asleep, I remembered. I froze. Dad wanted me to talk to him.

I stared at the dark ceiling. And I hesitated again.

And then I did it.

Hi dad, how are you? I’m doing fine. I had a good day with my friends.

And then I fell asleep.

It’s been 3 weeks since Sedona and I’ve been talking to my dad almost every day.

Talking to my dad is actually nice. Sometimes it’s dialogue in my head. Other times it’s just a feeling, or I notice the space somewhere in my gut or my heart and think of him with intention. Every time I do it, my inner world feels a little more harmonious. Maybe it’s because I know he won’t say anything I don’t want to hear back. But maybe it’s because for the first time, I feel safe talking to him. I can celebrate with him, I can be honest and vulnerable.

I heard that thoughts are forms of energy. What sort of energy am I putting out there? Is talking to my dad blowing good energy out there for him to receive wherever he’s at?

If he can’t find peace by himself, maybe he needs my help.

I have been wondering if talking to my dad is actually working. How would I know if this is real?

---

Is this psychic legit?

Each psychic I’ve seen has come to me as a recommendation by someone else. Each of these women have said details that are very specific and intimate to me. And they’ve also said a few other things that didn’t connect or relate to me.

During each reading, I wear a safety hat, which means that I remember I have free will, I trust my intuition, and that the information relayed to me is an invitation. It’s an invitation to evaluate certain aspects of my life. I can choose how I want to shape it, I make my own choices, I understand what works for me and what doesn’t. And if I am unsure about information relayed to me, I can simply sit and ponder it.

Does it matter if she really connected with my dad?

Let’s say she’s totally off the mark. Maybe my dad is at peace and she got it all wrong. Either way, I won’t ever know the truth. But I know what’s true for me — she opened the door to the idea that I can reshape my relationship with my dad even after he’s been gone for almost 2 decades.

It can’t hurt for me to talk to him. In fact, my daily convos with my dad have brought me more peace.

These psychics I connected with over the last few months each gave me something to think about more deeply. I’ve built in lovely rituals in my days. I’ve asked the psychics how I can help my family thrive. My family and I get a kick of out of the idea that someone else we’ve never met “sees” us, very much the way we see ourselves.

My daughter loved the reminder from one psychic that she needs to slow down more before bedtime since she has a hard time falling asleep. She also loved that the psychic encouraged she continue her passion for art and nature. Once my son heard the psychic suggested he needs more greens in his diet, he is excited to drink my green smoothies now. My husband was skeptical about me talking to these psychics but one of them told me he’s herculean and, well, now he doesn’t mind them as much :)

You see, maybe the answer to my pop quiz in the beginning is e) all of the above. And I’m ok with not knowing all the answers.

I actually love the idea of staying in wonder, that so much more is possibly true than we could have ever thought. There’s power in our loving thoughts, intentions, prayers and conversations we have with and for our family, friends, and communities.

With this wonder, I now talk to my dad, drink green smoothies, see my relationships under a new light, and I’ve created beautiful daily practices. I find peace with the idea of it all, that everything I’ve chosen to do after these readings, it just feels good, it feels right. And I don’t need proof it’s real.²

1. This may be the one and only podcast I’ll ever need to listen to. Start with season 1 episode 1. GO :) Telepathy is just the tipping point topic. It’s so much more, promise.

2. I believe in the psychics I’ve seen. Reach out if you’d like their contact info.