When Spirit Brings Both Comfort and Hard Truth

One of the most humbling aspects of offering psychic mediumship is that no two readings are ever alike. Some are gentle. Some are joyful. And occasionally, one arrives that is both heartbreaking and healing.

Recently I had the privilege of reading for a woman who had just lost her husband (I didn’t have any details about either of them or the circumstances of his death).

Before each reading I spend time in prayer, inviting only the highest guidance and asking for protection and clarity. In this case I had received absolutely nothing beforehand. No dreams. No intuitive nudges. Nothing. As the appointment drew closer, I wondered if perhaps this would be one of those rare sessions where very little would come through.

But moments before we spoke, everything changed.  I received what felt like a complete transmission from her husband, showing me that he had died of cancer, had been an adrenaline junkie, was highly charismatic, and that he was coming through with a sincere apology for having cheated on his wife, insisting “it was nothing” and in no way affected his love for her.  He sincerely wanted to ask her for her forgiveness and moreover, to reassure her of his enduring love and support.

Without warning, I became intensely cold and began shaking uncontrollably. My body felt as though it were experiencing receiving chemo (as I can only imagine it would feel). Then it morphed into a feeling of myself excitedly driving a race car.

As I often do before a reading, I asked my tarot and oracle decks a series of questions—not to predict the future, but as another symbolic language through which Spirit sometimes communicates.

The cards spoke of someone who had fought a long internal battle with addiction of all kinds. Cards came through with the words, betrayal and forgiveness.  The three of swords (a love triangle). One card even featured a red race car!

By the time the reading began, I found myself unexpectedly emotional. The overwhelming feeling wasn't simply grief. It was the grief of someone who suddenly felt unprotected and questioned her entire marriage.  As the conversation unfolded, many of the impressions began falling into place.

The physical sensations I had experienced before the reading matched the illness and treatment he endured. The repeated images of racing reflected one of his lifelong passions. Even the birds, which had seemed almost excessive, became a beautiful thread running throughout the session, symbolizing both his personality and the way he wanted her to recognize his continued presence.

During the reading, he acknowledged his mistakes with remarkable clarity. What came through wasn't defensiveness or justification, but deep regret with how his addictive personality had so deeply hurt her. Again and again, I heard some version of, "I'm so sorry", and, "please forgive me."

There were moments when his lively personality became so vivid that I found myself speaking with his mannerisms and emotional cadence. My posture changed. My arms waived in the air as I spoke.  My words became more direct. For a few minutes, we almost forgot he was speaking through me rather than directly to her.

Those are the moments that continue to humble me.

Whether someone believes mediumship is communication with the departed, an intuitive process arising from the unconscious, or something we don't yet have language to explain, what matters most to me is whether healing occurs.

A few days later she reached out to tell me that she felt lighter than she had since his passing. More importantly, she had begun noticing the signs she had previously dismissed—those small synchronicities and meaningful moments that so many grieving people experience but often explain away.

I encouraged her to trust them and assured her she could speak with him directly and that he was there to provide steadfast support, as he always had in life.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts mediumship can offer—not certainty, but permission. Permission to believe that love continues. Permission to notice that particular bird on the fence, the song on the radio, the impossible coincidence that arrives at just the right moment. Permission to trust that our relationships don't end simply because our loved ones are no longer here in physical form.

This reading reminded me that healing is rarely neat. Sometimes comfort arrives hand in hand with painful truths. Sometimes forgiveness begins only after the whole story is finally known.

And sometimes, the deepest evidence of love is not perfection, but the willingness to keep saying, from wherever we are:

"I'm sorry."

"I'm still here."

"I'll never stop loving you."