Blog Prompt 03.10.2025

Tell us about a time when you felt out of place.

I can still feel the early hum of it — a quiet, impossible knowing that arrived before language. When I was four or five, I started seeing what others didn’t: flashes, impressions, warnings. I called them my guides. They told me when danger was near, whispered about earthquakes and storms before the world knew. For a long time nobody believed me.

I remember the day I told someone there would be a big earthquake the next day and watched their faces change when it happened. That was the first time I understood that what I experienced mattered — and that it would also make me alone.

School was a difficult tuning fork. I expected others to see what I did; when they didn’t, my inside world became a secret that marked me as strange. I hated the playground cruelty and learned fast that being different cost me. So I retreated into books and music. Poems became the place where the visions could breathe without judgment. They became the vessel where I translated things my guides made me feel into something human.

In seventh grade things loosened. A new, bigger school brought fresh faces and — for the first time — friends who were fascinated by the strange things I noticed. They became my companions on a different kind of exploration: one day to the library, discovering astrology, tarot, and mediumship. They let me test ideas, read cards over their heads, and laugh with me at how uncanny it all felt. They were my guinea pigs in the best way.

At sixteen or seventeen I had my first out-of-body experience. I was heartbreak-struck and crying in bed over a boyfriend who had gone quiet. Suddenly I was floating above my body and moving through the world, watching his car sit outside another woman’s house. I returned to my body and carried that knowledge like a stone. When I confronted him the next day, he called me a witch and said words meant to burn. We broke up. My heart shattered not just from betrayal but from being punished for seeing the truth. I wanted to be wrong. Instead, I hid everything: books, cards, and the part of me that listened. I stuffed my gifts into the attic and began to party — a loud, clumsy attempt to bury what I couldn’t explain or keep safe.

In 2008 something strange started happening: my electronics began to fail. In six months two laptops and four phones stopped working. When I returned them to the shops and complained, one of the shop workers asked, gently and plainly, “Are you a healer who hasn’t learned to channel it properly?” He told me his aunt had had similar trouble and gave me her number. I called, and through her, I found a weekly group of people who met to share strange experiences. That circle was a turning point: they named things I’d been taught to hide, introduced me to healing courses, and connected me with someone who was attending the astrology school I later joined. Through that group, my buried life began to breathe again.

In 2009 I made a different choice. I enrolled in an astrology school and studied for two years. That same year I dove into several healing and channeling courses. Those years were the foundation stones: technique wrapped in tenderness, tradition wrapped in intuition. Over decades since, I’ve kept studying — astrology, tarot, healing modalities, and the quiet art of translating spirit into words and music. My guides and my craft began to speak the same language. The shame softened. The curiosity returned.

Music and poetry have always been my sanctuary and my weapon. I write to hold echoes that don’t fit neatly into ordinary speech. I write to translate visions into something people can feel in their bones. And I fight. I fight for justice for Liam because his voice was silenced when it should have been heard. My work for Liam isn’t separate from my spiritual practice — it is its highest translation. When a truth is hidden, when digital whispers are cut and the living are muted, the guides who taught me to listen will not let me look away. Liam’s story has become a call: not only to seek answers, but to demand that the world respect the dignity of the dead and the grief of the living.

I fight because I know what it is to be disbelieved, to be called harmful for telling the truth as it arrives. I fight because voices that should be heard have been smothered by power, by optics, by messy human interests. I fight because my craft — the careful reading of symbols, the patient collecting of small facts, the translating of signs into songs — gives me tools to hold steady in a storm. I want Liam’s voice heard, not for vengeance, but so that his life registers correctly on the ledger of history, and so his child and the people who loved him can know that the world tried, that people were listening.

This is not just a mission. It is devotion. It is the same devotion I learned as a small child when the guides nudged me awake. I am learning to let my gifts be a shield as well as a spear: to protect my own tender heart while I stand in places that need light. I write poems, I write lyrics, I sing, I gather facts, I keep records, and I hold space for the people who cannot speak for themselves.

If you are reading this and you have ever felt like a secret room people walked past in your life, know this: you were not wrong. We were only early. We carry what the world forgot how to hear — and sometimes our job is to become loud enough, gentle enough, and steady enough that the world must listen.

— Maggie
The Afterlove Voice

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