For as long as I can remember, I’ve sensed things others couldn’t. Energies, presences, whispers from another realm—all mixed into the fabric of my everyday life. It wasn’t until much later that I understood why: I’m an empath. Being an empath means I absorb emotions and energies around me, sometimes to the point where it feels overwhelming. Negative energies, draining people—what I call “energy vampires” or “soul snatchers”—can knock me off balance if I’m not careful. For a long time, this sensitivity felt like a curse. But now, I see it as a gift—a calling. Encounters Beyond the Veil Throughout my life, I’ve had moments that defy logic. One night driving past a cemetery, I saw a pink orb-like form linger around my car. It felt playful and curious, not frightening—a gentle energy reaching out across the veil. But it wasn’t one of my guardian angels. I’ve felt their presence in other ways, and this orb was something else—something that just passed through, maybe just drawn to my l...
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Looking back on my childhood, I now understand that I’ve always been an empath. My intuition has been with me for as long as I can remember, guiding me—sometimes even saving me. And when I think about all the things that happened when I was five years old, I realize just how many times I was protected by something beyond logic.
That year, I fell out of a moving truck. I got hit by a car. And then, one morning on my way to kindergarten, I escaped something far worse.
We lived near Horace Mann Elementary School in Anaheim, so my mom had me walk to school by myself. That day, I must have been running a little late because I don’t remember any other kids around.
As I reached the entrance of the school, I noticed a white station wagon. An older man sat inside. He pulled up right in front of me, swung open the passenger door, and called out,
“Little girl, do you want some candy? Come here and get some candy.”
Thinking back, he probably followed me there.
As a child, I loved candy. Any other day, I might have run right up to grab some without thinking twice.
But something inside me—something instinctive—told me not to.
Then he said it.
“Get in the car.”
And I knew.
Without being taught, without anyone ever warning me about strangers and candy and open car doors, I knew.
I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I just kept walking, pretending I hadn’t heard him.
I never told anyone. Not my mother. Not my father. Not a single soul. I just knew that I wasn’t supposed to get in that car.
And that knowledge, that instinct, saved me.
Another moment where I could have been lost forever—but I wasn’t.
Another miracle.
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