Not me. I was too busy feeling overwhelmed by the hugeness of the world to enjoy being psychic – whatever that meant. Being born an empath, sensitive to the smallest signals in energy, meant I was often a tearful snotty kid who was frequently exhausted. I would have relished Harry Potter’s room under the stairs.

I was a cry baby. After bursting into tears for the tenth time in one day, Mum scolded me for being too sensitive. There was no room for my emotions in a house boiling over with hers. How could I tell her about the shiny singing ladies who visited with silver songs.

Or the plant pixies who played hide and seek with me in the garden.

Or the shadow people I was certain were monsters who came into my room at night.

Feeling always a bit strange, with a constant ringing in my ears, I was drawn to books and stories about the supernatural. Ghost stories, witches and elves were gobbled up in the school library, reading there in safety during lunch and recess. In the early ’70s and I raided Dad’s books: Sybil, I’m OK, You’re OK, and “Games People Play”. I needed to understand people because they were a mystery.

But my story isn’t strange. Studies done on Highly Sensitive People say it’s normal.

It’s easier for empaths and sensitives to retreat into the world of ghosts and superstitions because it mirrors their lives. We have more in common with Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters and the pumpkin carriage that we do with Pocahontas.

My general stress levels were way too high to understand I was psychic. I didn’t know how to turn down the volume on life to examine it.

If I felt unnatural in this world, I felt very at home in the next. I saw my first earthbound spirit at 18, helping him to return to the light like it was an everyday thing.

When you ARE a thing your whole life, it slips under the mat of your attention, and this was so true with me.

The tearful child grandma fed goat cheese and liverwurst to.

That strange kid wearing black no one picked for sports.

The awkward girl in homemade clothes who spent lunches in the library.

It never dawned on me I was psychic.

And like the one symbol archaeologists needed to decipher the Rosetta stone, once that very late “aha” moment pinged into my head, everything else fell into place.

It took years to figure out, and still years to figure out what to do with the legacy of feeling deeply and living between two worlds.

The ringing in my ears turned out to be clairaudience.
The acute anxiety tuned out to be clairsentience.

The shadow people were spirits drawn to me because I was a natural medium, and the plant pixies – they helped me become a qualified aromatherapist and flower essence healer and still pop by whenever I’m in the bush. I outgrew the tissue trail and was no longer a tearful snotty kid.

I’d never give it up, and neither should you.

I’m here offering my story so you never have to endure the confusion and isolation I did, and to guide you into the amazing and breathtaking experience of both worlds as a sensitive and flourishing psychic.