In that difficult year, Spirit and I walked hand-in-hand. In fact, at my lowest point in chemotherapy, where I was so broken open that there was nothing left for me to cling onto, I heard a voice in my mind unlike my own— it was God’s voice.
I began to dialogue with this gentle male voice that called me, “My child.” This voice, that I believed to be Jesus’s, guided me through every step of my treatment. Listening to His voice strengthened my own inner compass, and little did I know, would set me on a path, one long forgotten and often ignored: The Return to Myself.
As a child, I had psychic visions and feelings. My grandmother was psychic, too, but we didn’t talk about it. We were Roman Catholic. So I tucked these gifts away since they scared me and I didn’t understand them. But now, after having faced the prospect of death, fear was no longer a factor.