Before I Had Words for It

Before I Had Words for It

When I say that this work has been part of my life since I was a child, I mean that quite literally.

One of my earliest memories of it happened when I was six years old.

My family was on our way to spend the day swimming at a lake when we were hit by a drunk driver. We were all in the accident, and my mom was badly injured.

What I remember from the scene comes in pieces.

I remember waking up on the ground. I remember standing up and seeing my mom’s purse beside me, with some of her things scattered around. So I started picking them up.

I remember standing there holding her purse and looking for my little brothers.

And then things became a haze.

What I didn’t understand at six years old was just how badly my mom had been hurt. She would spend about two weeks in intensive care, and the adults didn’t know whether she was going to survive.

Nobody told me that.

All I knew was that Mom was in the hospital, and I couldn’t see her.

For those next couple of weeks, our family took care of us and kept us busy. We were moved around among family members while Mom remained in the hospital.

And I kept asking the same questions.

When can I see Mom?

When is she coming home?

I couldn’t visit her. I couldn’t talk to her. And nobody could really give me an answer.

Looking back as an adult, I understand why. They didn’t have the answers themselves.

But six-year-old me didn’t know that.

I just knew I wanted my mom.

One day, while I was staying at my grandmother’s house, I decided that if nobody could take me to see her, I was going to find another way to be with her.

I knew Mom was lying in a hospital bed.

So I climbed into my grandmother’s bed.

From television, I knew what somebody in a hospital bed was supposed to look like. I pulled the covers up underneath my arms. I put my arms straight beside me. I lay perfectly still.

And in my six-year-old mind, if I could put myself in the same position my mom was in, I could connect with her.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I lay there quietly and reached for my mom in the only way I knew how.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

Later, my grandmother found me there.

I didn’t know anything about energy work. I didn’t know words like intuition or remote connection, or any of the language I would learn much later in life.

I was six years old.

I just knew how to reach for someone I couldn’t physically get to.

I don’t need to explain exactly what happened in that room or make it into something it wasn’t. What matters to me now is that nobody taught me to do it.

It simply made sense to me.

Today, after decades of experience and years of training, I have language for many of the things I couldn’t possibly have explained as a child.

But every once in a while, I think about that little girl in her grandmother’s bed.

She didn’t have any of those words.

She just wanted her mom.

And somehow, she already understood that connection didn’t always require being in the same room.

Long before I had words for any of this, I was already listening.